Stone of the Heart
by Scriobhaim
Summary: "Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart." William Butler Yeats from his poem 1916. We know how the story ends but do we really know how it all began? The improbable story between an American spy and his Irish asset that eventually became so much more: two damaged souls who found love despite the churning world around them.
1. The Assignment

**A/N: Apologies to anyone versed in Irish history! The BN timeline about these early days is somewhat muddled, presenting conflicting information. More importantly, much of the 'action' described as happening in Ireland during their blooming romance would likely have had to occur years earlier. So, throwing historical accuracy to the wind, the tale begins...**

**Stone of The Heart**

_**The Assignment**_

"You're kidding, right?"

"I never kid, Michael." Tom Card, CIA Training Officer, stared at his protégée who was clearly miffed at his new assignment. "Think of it as a vacation."

"A vacation? I've just had eight weeks of leave." The spy was ready to get back to work with an assignment commensurate with his skills.

Tom scoffed, "Six of those weeks were spent in a field hospital in the desert. Three bullets to the chest, I believe. If only one of them had been a half inch to the left, you and I would be spared this conversation." Michael rolled his eyes and began pacing slightly. "Look, Michael, Langley wants you on special assignment. The belief here is it might be a little less taxing. Give you more time to recover."

Michael was clearly not convinced. He felt fine. Work would be the best medicine for a complete recovery. He had spent too many empty hours, too much time thinking about the past. "But Ireland, Tom? The worst is over there. Nobody cares about Ireland."

"Thanks for your astute political observations, Michael. I'll be sure to pass that along to our friends in the British Embassy. They'll be pleased to hear their problems there are a non-issue." Tom's expression indicated there was very little room for negotiation. He held a file in his hand, giving it a slight wave.

Michael grabbed the file and slumped into the nearby chair. He opened the file and began to read. "Belfast? You're sending me to Belfast."

"See, Michael, things are lookin' up already. You can add it to your resume. You will have been stationed in all four of the list of B's to avoid: Baghdad, Beirut, Bosnia, and now, Belfast. Look, if it's really that objectionable to you perhaps I could swing a nice desk assignment stateside. Miami perhaps? Give you a chance to spend some quality time with mommy." Tom broke out into a toothy grin awaiting the spy's reaction to this new suggestion. A death glare emanated from the man before him. Tom continued, "Besides, you could do with a change of climate. Do you own an umbrella?"

Michael was no longer pouting but still was not convinced this was the best place for his first assignment back but he was ready to listen. Tom sensed the change in mood and began to explain. "Place is a powder keg, Michael. This peace deal they're talking about is for real. The Irish and British governments are hammering out the details. Hell, they even have the IRA buying into it, at least, parts of the IRA." He paused noting that the younger man's interest was increasingly piqued. "But here's where it gets messy. Not everyone wants the war to end. The Provos look like they're ready to split. A new radical army likely to emerge, one that wants the peace deal to blow up - literally. The Prod paramilitary groups think they're getting screwed in the deal. And everyone with a pulse up there is stockpiling guns in case all hell breaks loose."

"I thought disarmament is part of the conditions of the agreement." Michael studied the file before him.

Tom grinned, "I see you used your hospital stay to catch up on current events." He leaned forward, "It is, but we've got 600 years of distrust here. Looks like everyone wants a little insurance in case this ceasefire goes south. That's where you come in." Michael looked up. "Our man on site tells us guns are still coming in from the US, Russia, Libya, but guns are also going out, sold to all kinds of militias around the world. Looks like some enterprising Army members are setting up their own little gun running businesses, as well. "

"And you want me to stop it?" Michael looked confused.

Tom ignored the question. "There's one dealer in particular we're concerned about. His biggest clients are the world's biggest enemies. We also want a read from the inside on if this deal is as promising as it looks or if the IRA is playing us all."

"What about MI-5? They must have people in place for this kinda thing." Michael did not want to compromise an operation already in process by a friendly government.

"The US is sticking its neck out to broker this thing. The higher ups want us on the right side. You know, a happy photo op. Maybe a Nobel Peace prize." It was evident that Card was less concerned about this last bit but did want information about the armament situation.

Michael could see that there was a legitimate reason for this operation. "Fine." He turned his attention back to the file. "Looks like there's already an asset in place. I assume I come into play through him?"

"Murphy. Nervous type. Not our best call. He's a low level IRA grunt - a middleman of sorts. Basically, cars come in through the Port of Dublin. Sometimes there are surprises hidden within. He picks up the cars, takes them to a safe house nearby the border, and strips them of stashed weapons. IRA soldiers a little higher up on the food chain pick them up, distribute them. Others even higher up act as a conduit selling to the highest bidder, getting cash for the movement." Tom paused.

"So, I assume you would like this dealer..." Michael left his words hanging and expected Card to fill in the gaps giving Michael the full picture of exactly what he was walking into.

"Name's Hannon. Buys in bulk and sells to little armies throughout the world. We need to put him out of business. Ireland is our best shot to get him." Card could tell Michael was on board. "You'd be doin' double duty here: nab the bad guy and give us some Intel about what's happening with the IRA, info that we can either use ourselves or trade with the Brits for one of our ops. Win-win all around. Whaddya say, Michael? You've always been a tea man. It's perfect for you!"

"News flash, Tom, they drink it hot there." Michael smiled. "When do I go?"

"That's my boy! Three days. You'll meet Murphy in Dublin during one of his pick-ups. You'll be working with him stripping the cars. Car guy like you, well, it's a match made in heaven." Tom continued to sell this particular assignment, knowing Michael fully had expected to return to the Middle East. "Make note of the buyers and sellers. Let us know how and when we can make a move on Hannon. Could take awhile. That fiancée of yours okay with that - Samantha, right? That was one quick romance. Gotta be honest, I didn't think you had it in you." Tom had been very surprised to discover that aloof Michael Westen had taken the plunge toward commitment.

Michael squirmed slightly. He was still uncomfortable about his new status. Things had moved very quickly, too quickly. Samantha was everything that he could have hoped for in a partner. She was beautiful, a skilled operator who understood his love of the game. She made so few demands and accepted his work. So why was he still so apprehensive of this next step. "She'll be fine." He handed the file back to Card and stood up prepared to leave the office.

"Whoa. There's one more important factor in this cover if this plan has any chance of success. How's your Irish accent?" Tom waited, wondering if Michael could pull off this essential requirement for his cover.

The spy thought a moment, turned toward his mentor, and flashed a warm smile, his face softening as he spoke. "Name's McBride. Michael McBride. Pleased to meet ya." Then, he reverted immediately back to himself, reserved, serious. "Satisfied?"

"That'll work." Tom released his protégée with a wave of his hand.

Michael left the room cursing the bullets that removed him from the battlefield and apparently banished him to the shores of the Emerald Isle. He intended to hurry this job along so he could leave Ireland in the past, like so many other unwanted memories in his life. Get in, get out, be done with it. It was a philosophy that suited him well throughout his career. He expected this mission to be no different. He was certain that Michael McBride was slated to have a very short existence.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Denny Murphy was compromised through the delivery of one of the American shipments. Shortly afterward he was approached by a US undercover operator and a deal he dared not refused was presented - work with their intelligence agency or a rumour would be spread that he was working for the British. The second option would lead directly to a bullet through the head and an unmarked grave. He complied with the promise of a new life in the United States once the goal was reached. He just had to survive long enough for the government across the pond to deliver on that promise.

Mindless chatter filled the makeshift workspace, an abandoned barn on the outskirts of Scotshouse, just a few kilometres from the border. Denny was likeable enough but he had chosen the wrong path. He wasn't suited for this type of life. Michael was surprised that he had actually lasted this long in the field.

The general conception in the neighbourhood was that Murphy was a loyal but skittish lapdog. He lent his support for the cause through the cars he processed rather than the use of the guns that came his way. Luckily for Denny, there was plenty of firepower in the surrounding towns and countryside and many willing to go to great lengths to protect the stream of weapons and money flowing into the movement. Armies need cash to operate and robbing banks simply did not provide all the funds required. Denny Murphy had value, but little respect.

Michael watched the interactions between his 'boss' and the soldiers that passed through the enterprise. His impatience increased with each day as he realised that the likelihood of any information of import passing through this way was a long shot at best. If he had any hope of completing this operation quickly so he could return to real action, there was only one solution; he needed a new asset, someone with the balls to take a risk.

Michael's musings were interrupted as the sound of a vehicle could be heard crunching along the gravel driveway. No one was expected so both men tensed. Michael reached for his gun, releasing the safety, and prepared for whatever might come their way. Denny lifted his head to view the approaching visitor -a lone figure in an unfamiliar car with Belfast plates. Michael followed his lead moving slightly to the left to get a better angle should gunfire erupt. The driver came to a halt, exiting the car with a flourish, and stood motionless waiting to be greeted.

"Bloody hell!" Murphy instantly recognised the visitor. He groaned and his agitation was readily apparent. Michael could almost smell the man's fear. He took a longer look at the new arrival trying to ascertain Murphy's visceral reaction to their visitor. A petite redhead stood in the yard, her arms crossed, her foot tapping in impatience.

"Ex-girlfriend?" Michael whispered to his companion, wondering if that might explain Murphy's odd behaviour. But before Denny had a chance to answer, a shot rang out.

"Next one is goin' into your arse unless ya get out here, Murphy! I'll not be kept waitin' forever!" The woman shouted, her weapon pointed toward the barn.

The American intended to protect his asset and aimed at the intruder. Murphy leapt to where the spy was positioned pushing the barrel of the gun in a different direction. "Are ya daft, man? She'll shoot us both dead, she will! Just stay out of sight. She's not one for takin' to strangers." Then, Denny Murphy emerged from the shadows of the barn, a faux smile of welcome on his face. "Fiona! Was just having a wee. Apologies for not greetin' ya properly."

Michael watched the exchange perplexed by his associate's demeanour. After weeks of watching the man deal with hardened volunteers that passed this way, collecting or depositing arms, he had often noted his nervousness but never had seen Murphy exhibit fear until this moment. The woman with several Barrett rifles in her truck was evidently giving Murphy orders for their proposed delivery. He watched their conversation and was struck by her presence. She scanned the perimeter as she delivered her message, concisely and commandingly. The woman had skills and confidence.

She turned to leave and Michael noted the relief that seemed to wash over Murphy's body. She opened her car door, paused a moment, and her eyes fell exactly on the spot where Michael was hiding. A small smile formed on her face as she drew her weapon once again and fired, the bullet hitting the floor inches from his feet.

"Tell your man there, lurking in the shadows, that it's considered proper to greet a lady when she calls. Next time I come, I aim higher." And with that, she sped away. Michael watched her drive away, a grin forming at the corners of his mouth. He believed he had just found a potential asset. Things were beginning to look up.


	2. The Contest

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Contest**_

Once she was safely out of sight, Michael joined Denny outside the barn curious as to the woman's identity. "And that was...?"

Murphy shuddered. "Fiona Glenanne. Nasty piece of work. She'll shoot ya as sure as look at ya she will." He grew silent as he thought about his own encounters with her, as well as the stories he had heard about the woman.

"And her connection to you? I saw the guns. Is she a dealer? A collector? A PIRA volunteer?" Michael probed the man for information, becoming increasingly irritated by his silence. The man had talked practically nonstop since Michael arrived. Now that he actually had something worthwhile to speak about, he said nothing.

Denny was most reticent to divulge anything he knew about that one. She guarded her privacy well and those who crossed her often found themselves the target of her revenge. He swallowed hard as he tried to come up with a tale that would satisfy the American and keep his body intact.

Michael's patience was wearing thin by this point. "You do know how this works. Right? You give us information. We give you the chance to live somewhere with fewer bombs and bullets. That's what you wanted, or do I have that wrong?" Michael confronted his asset, demanding answers. Murphy sighed heavily, then nodded his head slightly. "Good. Now let's try this again. The woman - who is she? A volunteer?"

This time Denny answered without hesitation. "Volunteer? Hell, she's headed to being quartermaster, she is. Part of the Belfast Brigade. Started out as a bomber mostly but moved along in the command." Denny shook his head. "Bit of a wild card, that one. Never quite sure what may give offence. She has a short fuse like some of the gifts she gave the Brits up north." He chuckled over that last bit.

"Quartermaster? So she has access to the weapon supply?" Michael needed to know more.

"Access? She practically controls the whole bloody lot for West Belfast. Heard she has a wee side business set up for herself, as well. She doesn't go through me for her big deals, which suits me fine. The less I have to deal with the she-devil the better, right so."

Michael was intrigued, "Does she deal with Hannon?" A surge of excitement was felt as he thought he had found a more direct connection to his target.

"Dunno, McBride. She didn't give me a copy of her customer list. Maybe ya should head up to Belfast and ask her yerself." He turned as he prepared to get back to work. He now had four additional Barrett rifles to smuggle out of the country.

The American weighed his options. The current situation was delivering few results. Denny Murphy appeared to be a worthy asset on paper, but the reality was vastly different. The woman's appearance had opened up some new possibilities. If Denny was telling the truth, the woman had first hand knowledge of the IRA weapons stockpile and possibly a direct line to Hannon. It was a promising lead, one worth pursuing. Although he was supposed to remain here until he had concrete details, until Card gave him the order to move northward, he couldn't let this lead slip away. He had done more with less information than this. Michael smiled as he made his decision. He thought he just might follow Murphy's sage advice. It was time to head north to Belfast and see if he could become better acquainted with Fiona Glenanne.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Within a few days he found himself nursing a pint of Guinness in The Black Sand Pub, a dingy little place in the Lower Falls area of Belfast. It was a local frequented by more fervent Republican supporters so it was a good opportunity to introduce himself to the community. Luckily, he recognised a few men who had conducted business with Murphy recently so he was readily acknowledged, his presence met with few queries.

Michael McBride surveyed the crowd. The crowd was primarily male, the talk centred on football and women. The same sort of discussion was heard in bars throughout the world. The difference here, as in any war zone, is that a bomb could make a surprise entry at any moment. This was a risk the spy was willing to take. He thought this place might be his best chance of sighting Ms. Glenanne again.

He didn't have to wait long. A boisterous group burst through the door. They had a look of a team returning from an op, a sight he knew only too well. The five men and one woman, the woman he sought, were deep in debate. The barman poured shots of the pure for each before they even reached the counter.

"Suppose you could've been faster, do ya?" A beefy Irishman asked the question, a look of amusement on his face as his question was directed at the only female in the team.

"No doubt I do. If I hadn't been settin' the charge, I'd have done the deed far quicker. You're slow, Ruairi, and not just with a gun!" Her smile reflected both a bit of ribbing along with a heavy dose of truth. Her words met with laughter from those around them, the other patrons joining in.

A voice rang out, "She's got ya there, man!"

The focus of the jab turned scarlet as his skills and intellect appeared to be challenged. A flash of anger prompted him to throw down the gauntlet. "Slow am I? Care to put yer money where yer mouth is, Glenanne? Say, fifty quid?

"Can ya afford to lose it? I'd not want to be the cause of your wee ones goin' hungry?" The petite woman was not cowed and the stage was set for a showdown.

Ruairi just smiled as the table was prepared - a bottle of whiskey and two larger tumblers. The onlookers quickly placed their own bets while the combatants took their places, dismantling their weapons, and then setting them on the table before them. Michael watched intently as the scene played out before him.

The two sat across from one another. Each threw down three generous shots in succession 'to get the juices flowing' according to the enterprising bookie holding the impromptu wagers. The American looked on fearing the deck was stacked against the woman. The man had at least a foot of height and a hundred pounds on his opponent. Surely, the alcohol would affect both but the big man would likely tolerate it slightly better. The woman poured herself an additional shot, drinking it quickly, slamming the glass down. It was accompanied by a sigh of satisfaction loudly voiced. "Shall we get started afore ya lose your nerve?" One more taunt was hurled and the game was ready to begin.

The spy examined his target remembering all that he read in the file Tom Card was able to supply. Belfast born and bred. Father a known Republican dissident with a long affiliation with the IRA. Sister shot and killed by the British back in the 80's. Believed to be an active PIRA volunteer. Suspected involvement in several bombings on both sides of the border. The list continued. What he saw before him confirmed many of the details noted therein. She was a serious player, his smile brightened as he secretly rooted for her victory.

The betting ceased and the crowd hushed waiting for the signal to begin. "Go!" The smiles vanished as the shots of courage disappeared and both set to their task. The woman worked methodically, completely unrattled by the cheers and jeers of those surrounding the pair. Her nimble fingers putting each component in place with ease, her face showing no signs of pressure or worry. Then, it was done. Her weapon was now completely assembled, the chamber empty. She rose immediately, pushed back her chair, pulled the trigger, and proclaimed her victory._ "You're a dead man.__" _She revelled in her victory, a smile on her face. "_Now pay up!" _

The vanquished just laughed needing to restore some of his lost pride. "_You want yer money, you'll have to take it from me." _

Fiona was not one to ignore a challenge. _"All right, I will."_ The petite winner did just that, contorting his massive frame with a few easy moves, pinning him to the table as he writhed in pain. He produced his cash, raising it toward her, and was then released. "Think ya dislocated me arm!"

"Just be glad it weren't your head." She counted her purse, stuffing the cash into the pocket of her jeans. The crowd roared with laughter and the side bets were soon settled.

It took a great deal to impress the American spy but she had done it. _"Who's the girl?" _He asked the barman a question that he already knew the answer to but it was a necessary tactical move. It had to appear that he was clueless as to her identity or it would compromise his eventual approach.

_"Fiona Glenanne." _The barman shook his head, saying her name disparagingly. _"Trouble of the worst kind. Believe me lad you won't be wanting any of that." _But of course, he did. Trouble was not something he feared. In fact, he often headed directly in its path. He caught himself staring and as she passed by, their eyes met, longer than either of them intended. He continued to watch her as she approached another at a table at the far corner of the room, a glass of wine waiting for her there.

The barman noticed the new man's interest was a wee too keen. Everyone knew that Fiona was involved with Cormac O'Brien, a man with a temper and good with a gun, an often dangerous combination. Poor man was likely to catch a bullet if he kept up this prolonged watch. "_Besides, she's taken." _He added that last tidbit before he walked away. Hopefully, that would put an end to it and he pulled several pints for awaiting customers.

As Fiona headed toward the back she felt the stranger's eyes following her every move. The Falls community was a tight, often insular group. Newcomers were often intimidated and prone to make their stay at the pub a short one. But here was a man that looked completely comfortable in this locale, daring to be noticed. And notice, she did!

Cormac barked into his phone as she sat down, a smile welcoming her. He wasn't a bad sort, just a bit dull; the first flames of passion were merely embers now. Fiona kept glancing at the man at the bar who kept his gaze focused in her direction. She was intrigued by the man. There was something in his eyes that spoke to her. Turning her attention back to her paramour she knew in her heart that this relationship had run its course. It was time to move on.

"Sorry, love. Needed to get a few things sorted. Did it go all right?" Before waiting for an answer, he switched topics. "You sorted Rauiri there right enough!" A hearty laugh followed as he raised his glass in salute to her.

"It was a good night all around, I suppose. I'm a few quid richer and that bank we hit tonight is significantly poorer." Their glasses clinked.

"That's my girl!" It was a simple enough statement but it prodded her into beginning a difficult conversation. My girl. Cormac had unknowingly said just the wrong thing.

Michael watched the couple as they talked. The man could pose a serious complication to his plan. It was difficult enough recruiting an asset, gaining trust. It was nearly impossible if the target in question was 'involved' unless he resorted to blackmail of some kind, which was not his preferred _modus operandi_. He wondered how serious the relationship was but was encouraged by her continued glances in his direction. Maybe there was an opening there after all?

The barman noting the empty glass in front of Michael asked, "Another then?" Receiving a nod of affirmation, he began to pour, the process of pulling a pint properly was a drawn out affair giving him an opportunity to school the man before he got his head blown off. "Good thing Cormac's got his back to ya with all the puppy dog eyes yer makin' at his bird. Take my advice, don't go there. He's likely to shoot ya. She's likely to blow you up. Not worth it, mate. Like I said, she's taken."

Just then, Fiona Glenanne leaned over to her now former lover, placing a light kiss on his cheek and giving the man at the bar one more glance before standing up. She turned away hurriedly walking out the door with conviction, comfortable with the decision made. Michael watched her every move. He broke into an even wider grin as she left the bar never looking backward. "_Taken? You see that? That's the kiss you give when it's over." _ The barman followed his gaze seeing that Fiona Glenanne appeared to be newly single. Michael McBride would find away to win her over. Michael Westen was actually looking forward to the task.


	3. The Dance

**Stone of The Heart**

_**The Dance**_

The dance began. Recruiting an asset is never an easy task. Often you take two steps backward for each one taken in the direction you actually want to go. You navigate your way around the floor hoping you don't step on anyone's toes. And when your target is as skilled as you are, it requires a bit of finesse. The voice in Michael's head continued the monologue, reminding him to tread slowly and carefully.

He had to admit there was a part of him that was actually enjoying his time here, well, enjoying it as much as he was able to 'enjoy' anything. His persona, Michael McBride, was quick with a laugh, easy to be around, a man with a bit of dash and flair. He soon became a fixture at the pub, picking up odd jobs to pay the rent, stopping at the local at the end of a shift. He adopted the pattern of the neighbourhood and found himself drawn into conversations more and more. It was an excellent way to gather Intel, men free with talk after a few pints of the black stuff, but it was also a risk that he may say the wrong thing, hoping that if he did that he could pass it off at being the fault of the drink.

The conversation always turned to politics. It was hard to ignore in this place that sat in the shadow of the 'Peace Wall', a five kilometre long, seven metre high wall laced with barbed wire that separated this part of town from the Shankhill, a staunch Loyalist community. Rumours swirled about the status of the talks in Stormont, London, and Dublin. Some here fervently hoping to end the struggle that consumed their lives, while others advocated ramping up the violence so all demands would be met. Michael tried to remain silent or use his quick wit to deflect the topic and ease the tension. He wanted to have no record of taking a position; after all, he had no idea where his target stood on this issue. One false word and each step he had taken would set him back to square one.

Fiona Glenanne was not an easy one to approach. The spy watched her for weeks, keeping a safe distance, noting her guarded nature, her honed covert skills. She was quite an enigma, setting up black market trades, planting a strategically placed bomb or two, brazenly robbing banks in the area. She was a woman seemingly without fear but a heavy dose of recklessness was there, as well. But there was another side not often seen by her comrades in arms. Her profits from these adventures rarely lined her own pockets but were passed along often to women in the community whose husbands were interned in the Cages or the H blocks of Long Kesh due to their IRA activities. The Army provided for their own, but too often it was not enough. Fiona Glenanne helped to fill in some of these gaps.

After considerable surveillance he decided the best approach would be here in the pub where she appeared to let her guard down slightly. She was rarely alone. Sometimes her stops here were brief, a quick word with another before gliding away; sometimes there were long hushed conversations with hardened men at the back tables, all others giving them privacy in this public arena. Each time, their eyes met; each time hoping that the other would make the first move.

Michael arrived a bit later than usual and was surprised to see that Ms. Glenanne had already made an appearance. She sat near the back deep in conversation with another. He caught a glimpse of her companion, surprised to find that it was Hannon himself. Negotiations of some sort seemed to be underway, both countenances firm and unyielding. A deal was eventually struck, compromise on each side, and Hannon took his leave. Fiona remained sipping her wine as she mentally reviewed the proposition agreed to, working out the logistics in her mind. He found himself staring at her and quickly averted his gaze.

"Jaysus! Instead uv gawkin' at 'er like a prized sow, why don't yer talk to the _cailin." _The grizzled old man bedside him waved his hand in frustration. "Go on wit' ye nowt, boyo." He stared Michael down until he finally moved.

Sufficiently humbled by this order, Michael realised the time had come for his approach especially now that other patrons were aware of his interest. His heart began racing, a wave of nervousness washing over him; surprising effects for a covert operative with a great deal of field experience. He moved toward her, cutting easily through the crowd; she, feigning no knowledge of his approach.

After several years as an operative herself, she was not unaware of the man's notice. He had been staring at her for weeks. She kept waiting for him to approach. She briefly thought of making the first move and introducing herself but then decided against it. If the man were too reticent to offer her a drink in a pub, she'd likely not want him in her bed. Pity, though, she mused as she turned her glance upward and there he stood.

_"Can I have a dance?"_ He spoke the words softly. The click of a snub nosed revolver was the answer. Michael saw the weapon, impressed by the speed and stealth of the draw, and his smile widened, _"I assume that means yes."_

Fiona returned the smile pleased with his reaction. He certainly didn't seem bothered by having a gun pointed at him. That was a fact in his favour but she was not so easily won. "Sorry. I don't dance with strangers." Of course, she knew exactly who he was. He'd been making his attentions known these past few weeks and she had made her own inquiries.

"Good thing I'm not a stranger then. I'm the man who asked you to dance." The man had style as well as wit.

Fiona studied the man before her. Those eyes! She could get lost in those eyes. "You'll not be steppin' on my feet, now will ya? I've got on my good shoes." Her tone was playful but her expression was not.

"I make no promises but I'll do my best." Without another word, she lifted her skirts slightly as the American watched her every move. Replacing her gun into her thigh holster, she noted his interest, keeping her leg exposed slightly longer than necessary.

They moved slowly toward the dance floor, a large empty space cleared on Friday nights for the purpose, the tables pushed to the side. Their hands touched, their fingers soon entwined. Each felt the heat from the other. Fiona looked into her partner's eyes. "_You've been watching me for quite a while. Are you sure a dance is all your after?" _She liked the look of the man. He would be good for a dalliance; men so often bored her after a time. But he could prove valuable, if only for a night.

_"It's a start." _They leaned into one another, their bodies easily fitting, moving to the same rhythm, lost in the moment. She settled her head on his shoulder. Michael breathed in the scent of her as his arm encircled her tiny frame, her long auburn locks brushing against his skin. Fiona liked the feel of his arms around her. He held her with confidence and she relaxed in his embrace. They moved effortlessly around the floor clearly under the spell of one another as weeks of longing looks finally had an outlet.

_"So what's your name?"_ She lifted her face to look into his eyes, her hand moving upward to caress his neck, her fingers lightly moving along his skin.

_"Michael McBride." _A twinge of regret accompanied the name. He wanted it to be himself that she was meeting. This felt too right to be deception. Every once in a while, he disliked his job. This was one of those moments.

She purred slightly as she pulled herself closer into him. "_Nice to meet you, Mr. McBride."_

Her smile displaced his regret and he became Michael McBride once again, shutting out the Westen part of him if only for the night. "_The pleasure's all mine."_ They stayed this way for quite some time, neither willing to break apart even for an instant. These two operatives were used to loneliness, but here, for this brief part of time, they communed with a kindred spirit. No words were spoken; no words were needed, as the dance continued.

Their unity drew the notice of several regulars. One onlooker shouted cross the room, "Jaysus, Glenanne. Get a room, will ya? No one wants to see ya actin' the floosie, eh." This comment was met with quiet laughter.

Fiona stopped mid step, turning her attention to her heckler. "I'm surprised ya noticed, O'Malley! Hearing yer _bhean-cheile _tell it, ya wouldn't recognise what some do behind closed doors." A whoop of laughter ensued as the instigator turned scarlet. Turning her focus back to her dance partner, she flashed a suggestive look at him, hoping he would take it as a signal to ask her to leave with him, to slip away to someplace private, someplace they could perhaps take this one step further. But the subtle hint seemed to be lost on the man as he restarted the dance, melding his body into hers.

Michael was not so dense to her implied suggestion as she supposed. He would have liked nothing more than to whisk her away. It took all of his willpower and training to squelch that desire, that rising need. But Michael Westen had a job to do, a job that would be over before it truly began if he slept with this woman before laying his proposition before her. He needed to be truthful with her about Hannon and the importance of her assistance in taking him down. Well, as truthful as an American spy stationed in Belfast to track IRA arms shipments and shut down an enterprising gun dealer was able to be. So, he continued the dance, romancing her to gain her trust, losing himself in her through the process.

The patrons dwindled as the hours ticked away. Soon they were alone on the floor, still locked in an embrace swaying to the music. A loud, "Ahem!" from the proprietor broke their reverie. "No lock in tonight, I'm afraid." It was closing time, the couple clearly overstaying their welcome. The proprietor already extending the time as to not offend the fiery woman but the hour was late increasing the chances of a patrol to come by.

Slowly, they broke apart, as the trance was broken. As they left the pub a moment of awkwardness ensued, each pondering the next move. Fiona hoped that he would suggest they have a nightcap or something more. She was reluctant to invite this relative stranger to her place. Privacy and security took precedence over her other needs. So, she tried to stall for time, hoping he would take the initiative. Fiona held onto his arm for balance as she removed her heels instantly losing four inches of height. "Ach, these heels are killing me! Next time remind me to wear flats."

"Next time? So there's to be a next time?" Michael grinned at the possibility.

She wanted to see more of the man before her. The way that he looked at her seemed to indicate that he felt the same. Still, a part of him held back. She could tell he was not ready to continue the evening. "Perhaps." The woman's smile implied it was more than just a maybe. "You'll at least get a mobile number and a name to go with it."

A name. A name that he already knew. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He could no longer hold back. Michael McBride faded slightly, the easy smile disappearing from his face, his expression serious. "I know who you are, Fiona."

Her body tensed at the way he said these words and she quickly reached for her revolver, furious with herself for letting her guard down. She pointed it at his chest, prepared to pull the trigger if he made any movement toward her. Michael's voice was tender as he put up his hands indicating he had no intention of harming her. "There's no need for that." He paused before proceeding. He was hesitant to continue, fearing what he was about to request might be answered with a bullet. "It's about Hannon." Her brow furrowed wondering what possible connection led the gun dealer's name to pop up in this conversation. "He's putting guns into some volatile areas. Sometimes, they wind up in the hands of children. I intend to put him out of business - permanently- and I need your help."

Her eyes flashed fury. She had been lured into thinking this man before her had designs on her in a personal way. She was wounded now to think this was all a ploy of some kind. Her skills more valuable than herself. "My help, it is? Thirty minutes ago I thought your 'need' was of a different sort." Her glance moved downward before returning to his face, the point delivered. "So all these looks of yours... the dancing... instead of tryin' to get me into bed it was all to get me to do a job for you?"

"No, no, no." He shook outstretched hands. "Not for me. With me." It was an encouraging sign that she hadn't shot him yet. "Look, can we go somewhere and talk. Somewhere more private." Michael looked around, uncomfortable with his surroundings. He stood in the dead of night in the middle of The Falls Road long after the gates out of the area were locked with an armed IRA volunteer ready to shoot him. He imagined there was more than one pair of eyes spying on the pair from the shadows.

"Ah, someplace private ya want, is it? Well, I propose ya go to hell but I'm sure you'll have plenty of company there!" She moved backward intending to remove herself from the area. She would be able to lose McBride easily through the warren of streets she knew so well. If he tried to follow, surely one of the patrols would cut him down.

Michael uttered a final plea. "Just... just think about it. Give me a chance to explain. I'll be here at the pub tomorrow night in case you change your mind." Her eyes remained hardened. Her pace quickened as she was about to reach the corner and slip away into the night. "And, Fiona, whatever you decide, it wasn't all just about the job." Michael Westen, using his alias' brogue, spoke those words from his heart. He picked up the shoes she had left behind in her escape and stood staring down the road long after she disappeared.


	4. The Proposition

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Proposition**_

Michael sat at the bar as promised, watching the minutes tick by, hoping that she would appear. The hour was late and time was slipping away. He had mishandled the approach and likely lost a potentially valuable asset. Worse than that, he might never see her again. He told himself that his interest was purely related to the mission at hand; that she might provide the most direct route to Hannon. But his thoughts kept returning to the scent of her hair, the feel of her hand in his, the way she had looked into his eyes. He called for another pint as last orders were taken. She wasn't going to show. He had lost his chance.

The door of the pub swung open and Fiona Glenanne breezed through it. Her hair was up, soft tendrils framing her face, her red dress, short and tight. Michael's breath nearly stopped at the sight of her, drinking her in as she strode over to where he was perched. She took the seat beside him barely glancing his way. A drink appeared before her, the barman familiar with her usual. No words were said but Michael's smile spoke volumes.

"You look beautiful, Fiona." The compliment flowed easily from Michael McBride's lips.

Fiona reddened slightly at the compliment. "Don't be thinkin' this was for you, McBride," indicating her state of dress. "I had a date." It was an invitation she had accepted weeks ago. She had been looking forward to it but during dinner she found her mind wandering, remembering his eyes and the way she felt in his arms. She made her excuses and ended the evening early. As she hurriedly made her away from the city centre, she wondered how long he would wait. It was nearly closing time. She thought that she might have lost her chance to see him again. But, there he sat. Fiona was struck by two conflicting emotions as she entered the pub: relief that he was there and annoyance with herself that she cared.

"I wasn't sure you'd come." Michael turned toward her, his voice barely a whisper. She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of her wine, slightly uncomfortable under his intense gaze.

"Well, I'm here." Her gaze continued forward. "Besides, you have my shoes. I'll be wantin' them back." A quick glance darted in his direction.

Michael flashed a wide smile. "I'll see what I can do." Just then the barman passed by, a smirk on his face as he made note of her last comment. Fiona understood that by tomorrow the whole neighbourhood would be thinking they had done the deed. The man would get credit for the conquest while she had none of the pleasure. That thought solidified her plan.

She threw off her unease and faced Michael, a coquettish smile appearing on her face. "Be a dear, will ya, and grab my compact in my purse there." A handbag was nestled on the floor beside her.

"Your compact?" Michael was unfamiliar with female beauty products.

"To powder my nose. It's a wee thing. Should be sittin' right on top but I dare not bend over so far in this dress." Fiona drew attention to her legs recalling his interest in them the night before. She held his gaze as he bent over rifling through the purse while keeping his eyes on her face, her smile drawing him in. His hand reached in and grabbed the object described. A smile accompanied this small victory. As he returned to an upright position, he glanced at the object that he held. Then, he closed his eyes momentarily cursing his stupidity.

Fiona held a mobile in her hand that he hadn't noticed before, so enthralled was he by her appearance. Her voice turned sultry and she leaned in closer. "That's a wee block of C-4 you're holdin' in your hand there, McBride. This," indicating the mobile, "is a detonator. I'll hear ya out, but if I don't like your answers..." She didn't need to finish her sentence. Michael understood the situation completely. She then turned to the proprietor. "We won't be keepin' ya past yer time tonight, Joe. Ready, Michael?" She slipped her arm in his, keeping her thumb in touch with the trigger should things go awry. She might have been caught off guard yesterday, but Fiona Glenanne made a habit of being prepared.

"Well played!" He whispered into her ear, a tip of her head acknowledged the comment. The couple exited quickly, their arms linked, and headed down the road. "You know, if you press that trigger, you're likely to get a bit of blowback yourself." He could have disengaged himself from the situation at any time. A quick hurl of the explosive, another move to disarm her, and he could be safely away in seconds. But then he wouldn't be walking arm and arm with her, a feeling he was enjoying immensely despite the threat of implosion.

"It's a wee piece. Probably just take off your hand." She looked up at him, grinned, and then pushed him hard into a nearby brick wall. She leaned in appearing about to kiss him but then pushed herself back and held the detonator menacingly, her mood no longer playful. "How do you know about Hannon and his business? And why do you care? You a tout?"

"I'm no informer. I worked with a man named Kovalenko, gun dealer out of the Ukraine." Michael began his prepared explanation, much of it based on fact gleaned from a classified CIA file. Fiona recognised the name instantly. "He had a great many transactions with Hannon. The bulk of the weapons that he sold to Hannon wound up in places like Somalia and Afghanistan, often supplying children's militias. They got traced back to the Ukrainians, bad PR for the movement, and for Kovalenko. He's facing fifty years." Michael paused and noted Fiona's stance had relaxed somewhat. "I don't want the same thing to happen here. If the peace deal goes through, and the Provos start dumping weapons, I don't want them to wind up in the hands of someone like Hannon. Do you?"

She stared at him for several seconds as she assessed the story and the man who told it. She knew of Kovalenko and his sad tale. As for Hannon, she suspected that he was not the most scrupulous of dealers. She would hear McBride out since for some odd reason she trusted him. Despite his deception to procure her assistance, his heart seemed true. If her perception changed, well, she would shoot him and be done with it. A decision reached, she made a show of closing her cell phone, the threat of detonation eliminated - at least for now. She turned to walk away. She took a few steps, then glanced backward. "Are ya comin', McBride?" He swiftly moved beside her, offering his arm, which she gladly accepted.

"Do you want this back?" He offered her the block of C-4 that she had used as leverage.

"Keep it. A reminder of sorts to keep you honest." She leaned against him as they began to walk.

He slipped the small explosive into his pocket, fascinated by the small woman beside him. Her moods seemed to change rapidly. She may even be slightly unstable, he thought. Yet, he had never been so attracted to anyone so much in his life. "Where are we headed?"

"Someplace private. Someplace that we can talk. That's what ya wanted last night, McBride. Have ya changed your mind then?" Her expression challenged him to disagree. His smile was her answer and they rambled along the quiet streets, sirens and muffled gunfire could be heard in the distance. Eventually, they stopped at a small terraced house on a corner. Fiona opening the door a crack as she released the tripwire that would activate a rather loud and deadly welcoming surprise for the uninvited. Michael noted the security measure and was glad he hadn't stopped by unannounced as part of his surveillance.

She headed straight for the kitchen. "Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"Whatever you're having is fine with me."

She poured two glasses of red, handing him one as she passed by. "I'm feeling a tad overdressed here. Be right back." She disappeared and Michael had time to take stock of his surroundings. It was simply furnished, a comfortable and functional room, not much here reflecting its occupant's personality. She emerged from the back putting an end to his inspection. Her hair was loose, a bit tousled now that it was freed from the updo. She wore a plain white tank and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tight in all the right places. Michael thought she looked even more beautiful in this state. "You live here?" Michael posed the question upon her return, still looking around, trying to avoid staring at her body.

The man made no move toward her. She had hoped that once alone his thoughts might focus on pleasure but he appeared to want to get down to business. She sighed heavily before answering.

"Part of the time. My main place is in Dublin these days. When things get too heated here, I make my way south." She tried to keep the dialogue casual, not divulging the frequent visits from the Royal Ulster Constabulary looking for evidence linking her to bombings throughout the city and beyond. They would find none in this place. This was her known address, not where she actually lived. "So, ready to tell me your plan, McBride?" She took a sip of her wine as she settled herself on the couch.

Michael launched into an overview of his plan, Fiona asking questions as needed. She watched him as he spoke, his tone sincere. She barely knew him yet found herself trusting the man.

"The first step is to identify the location of his stockpile. That way we can keep tabs on when he has the inventory to make a major delivery." Michael was used to breaking the overall mission into smaller components.

"Stockpiles, I'm afraid. He doesn't just have one site. It's a bit of insurance against losing your whole inventory in one sweep if the Brits, the RUC, or even Dublin get wind of your supply." Michael immediately saw the sense in the arrangement. Fiona continued, "But I made it a point of keeping tabs on his operation in case he would ever try to make a move against me." She moved toward the entry where a portrait of James II was displayed. She removed the painting from the wall and brought it over to the kitchen table.

Michael looked confused, "James II?" He thought it an odd part of the decor: an English king prominently featured in the home of a Provo volunteer.

As she pried the backing off the frame she explained, "He lost the Battle of the Boyne and mucked up Ireland ever since. His portrait reminds me of what happens to all of us... if we lose." She removed a topographical map hidden in the recesses of the frame and then spread it out before them. The map was filled with notes, several weapons depot locations labelled. "The ones marked in purple there are the ones of Hannon's that I know about." Michael was impressed by the attention to detail. He doubted that most of his CIA contemporaries could do much better.

They both began to examine the map. The print was tiny so it required closer scrutiny. Both operatives moved in for a closer look. Their heads drawn together, their hearts beating in unison. Michael could no longer focus on the map. Her hair brushed against his face as the closeness to her became nearly intolerable. She sensed the change in him as he moved nearer, so near that she could barely breathe. Their faces turned slightly toward one another as Michael's lips soon sought hers, pulled together as if by some unknown force. Once begun, events escalated at a rapid pace. Two operatives usually so circumspect in every area of their lives threw caution to the wind as clothes were rapidly discarded, their need overriding all other concerns. They lost themselves in one another, thoughts of alliances and duty tossed aside along with their inhibitions.

Contentment surged through them both as weeks of longing had been satiated, neither regretting nor disappointed in the outcome. She laid her head against his chest afraid to speak lest she break the spell. Michael stroked her hair and finally broke the silence, his voice soft. "Do you want me to stay?" He hoped that she would say yes. That this was less an impetuous act and as welcomed as he found it.

Fiona thought for a moment before answering. She did, of course, want him to stay. She wanted to stay within his arms that felt like home but she daren't appear too needy. "Depends, I suppose. Do ya cook?"

"Cook?" This was not the question he expected.

She turned onto her stomach so she could face him. "Was it a tough question for you, McBride? Yes, cook."

He grinned as he pushed back a strand of her hair. "I make a fierce omelet."

"Well, I suppose I should sample your 'other' talents." She ran her fingers softly over his torso. "But I only eat egg whites."

"Egg white only. Duly noted." She settled down laying her head on his chest again and soon drifted off to sleep. But Michael stayed awake long into the night ruminating about his current situation. It was not the first time he had slept with an asset. Sometimes, it was a necessary strategic move, to gain trust, to elicit cooperation, to infiltrate an organisation. In this particular case, however, none of those applied, he had already sold her on the task. Truth be told, he slept with her because he wanted to, without ulterior motives. This was unchartered territory for the spy that was used to keeping his emotions at bay, a skill necessary for his survival at times, but she had dredged up feelings he didn't know he possessed, so long had his heart been made of stone.

He watched her sleep as he wondered how long he could play this part. He was no longer in a hurry to leave Ireland. In fact, it was the first place he had ever felt truly at home. He watched her sleep, her eyelids fluttered slightly, and his heart longed to stay here forever.


	5. The Courtship

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Courtship**_

They had three days. Three days where they were able to make their whole world a small terraced house in the Lower Falls of Belfast City, the outside forces around them banned from their thoughts as much as possible. They allowed themselves to indulge in pleasure, a rare break in their ordered lives.

Michael had woken early, as was his custom, slipping out briefly while she slept. The larder was getting quite bare at this point, a trip for provisions becoming a necessity. They avoided a shopping excursion as long as possible, neither of them wanting to return to a normal routine fearing it would break the spell they were both under. Unless Michael wanted to face another meal of beans on toast, there was little choice.

He hurriedly completed his task, relieved that he was able to find an open shop at the early hour, anxious to slip back between the sheets once again, to feel her close by his side. She was awake when he returned. "There ya are. I was afraid ya had slunk off into the night. That perhaps ya had already tired of my charms." Her voice was thick with sleep.

"That would never happen." He scoffed at the suggestion and then explained his absence. "I picked up some food."

"Tired of beans on toast, is it?" She propped herself up on her elbow, watching him as she roused herself from the night's slumber.

He grimaced indicating the truth of her statement. "I got something better." He ducked into the other room, swiftly returning, his hands holding the morning's meal.

"Ah, breakfast in bed. How romantic!" She pulled the sheets around her as she sat up in bed. Michael handed her a container and a spoon. She stared at the cup in her hand for several moments before speaking. "What the hell is this?"

Michael his mouth full of his first spoonful mumbled the answer. "Yoghurt. Blueberry."

"Yes, I know what it is, McBride, but I was wondering what you expected me to do with it." Her eyes flashed with irritation.

"Eat it." His expression was puzzled as he took another spoonful clearly enjoying the taste.

"I was hoping for a nice fry up or a croissant at the least." She stared at the cup a mite longer, then dipped her spoon into the purple colloidal mass and slowly raised it to her lips. She held the spoon there in mid air as she worked up the courage to put it into her mouth.

"Afraid, Fiona?" Michael taunted her, amused by her hesitance.

She gave him a look of displeasure, annoyed by the ridiculous assumption on his part and rapidly swallowed the spoonful. Her face contorted slightly, "That's an awful thing."

"It's an acquired taste. Have another bite?" This time he offered her a portion from his spoon. His smile, inviting and hopeful, was an offer that she was unable to refuse.

The second bite went down easier than the first. "Well, maybe it's not so bad as I first feared." She took smaller tastes eventually finishing the entire container. "Ya eat this often, McBride? If ya do, I may have to rethink this relationship."

"All the time." Michael admitted.

"So, we've already come to a crossroads, of sorts. Finding out the secret bad qualities of the other." She winked. "Of course, being practically perfect as I am, ya will find no fault with me."

He silently agreed acknowledging to himself that all the imperfections seen by the world at large about this woman made her absolutely perfect for him. The way he was looking at her was making her slightly uncomfortable. She placed her empty container on the bedside table and drew back the sheets in invitation. "Come back to bed, McBride. Let's see if this yoghurt thing is good for your constitution."

There was that name again. Each time she said it, it was like a dagger through the heart. "It's Michael." He said his name aloud. Michael Westen usually did not reveal himself often, his true self, whether he was under cover or not, but this was one of those times. Her brow furrowed wondering why he was pointing out a name that she already knew.

The lilt in his speech remained but the words were his own, a long speech by his usual standards but spoken from the heart. "I don't want you to call me McBride when we're together, when we're alone. That's for the fellas out there. For when we're working. But here, I want... I need you to call me, Michael." So much of this new relationship was based on lies, but his feelings for her were true. He needed her to call him by his name, his real name. It made this whole affair seem less like betrayal.

She watched his face as he spoke, a catch to his voice as he made the plea, a seriousness there she had not seen before. She saw the truth in his eyes unaware of why this was so important to him. It was an easy wish to grant. "Michael." She spoke the name softly almost as if it were a prayer. She reached for his face gliding her hand across his cheek, staring into his eyes. "Michael." She said it once more dismissing the darkness from his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He made another foray to the outside world returning with a more substantial meal this time. When he returned he found her deep in conversation on her mobile. A smile greeted him but soon disappeared as she refocused on the caller. She still wore one of his button down shirts that dwarfed her small frame. It made her look somewhat childlike, innocent, but the tone of her voice quickly dispelled the illusion. Then, the call ended.

She sat motionless, deep in thought, for several moments. Michael interrupted her reverie, planting a soft kiss on her cheek in greeting. "I hope you like Chinese."

She peeked into the take away bag and breathed in the aroma of the feast. "I do, but unfortunately I can't stay." She grabbed a spring roll adding, "Duty calls," as she headed toward the shower. "Go ahead without me." Michael started to pick at the food, his mind in overdrive thinking about the identity of the caller and the reason behind the spur to action.

Fiona emerged in short order dressed in dark fatigues, her hair pulled back starkly, looking as if she were preparing for battle. "Job?" Michael asked though the answer was evident by her attire. A small nod was her answer as she strapped a small pistol to her leg and placed another in her waistband. "Need some help?"

"No, McBride." The use of the name he begged her not to use told him that this was purely business. Concern was written all over his face. "Should be back by tomorrow night and I'll take a rain check on this dinner."

"Tomorrow night? Why so long? Are you leaving the country?" Michael, the spy, gently probed for more information.

"Well, I suppose that depends on your point of view, doesn't it? Whether there are actually thirty two counties in this place we call home." Her smirk spoke volumes. "Wish I could tell ya more, Michael but it's 'RA business. You'd not have me facin' a court-martial, would ya now?"

Her words gave him pause adding a new wrinkle to this assignment, one he hadn't considered. He drew near, laying his hands on her hips. "I'll just be missing you is all. How 'bout a dinner that doesn't come out of a carton when you're back, someplace nice?"

"Like a date? Are we datin' now, Michael?" She looked up into his eyes. "Pick me up at half seven then. I'll ring you if there's a delay." And with that she was off leaving him alone to wonder how he could infiltrate her next assignment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Promptness was a quality deeply instilled in the American spy. He arrived at her door at the appointed time.

Promptness was a quality deeply instilled in the Irish guerrilla. She opened the door ready for the night to come.

Gone were the fatigues and boots replaced by a short black dress and heels, a stark contrast to her previous day's outfit.

Gone were Michael's jeans and trainers, replaced by a fitted jacket and a collared shirt. Two people ready for their first official date.

So struck by his appearance, she almost didn't notice the small bouquet he held along with a paper bag. "Picked these up. Don't know if you like this sort of thing..." His voice trailed off unsure if he had made the right move. He lifted the paper bag. "And your shoes." A smile graced his face.

She grasped the flowers gently inhaling their sweet scent, touched by the gesture. "They're beautiful. I love flowers." She opened the door wider. "Let me put these in water. And these," referring to her shoes nestled inside the bag, "won't ya be slippin' them on my feet then?" Her sly smile was met with a blank stare, the reference lost on her date. "Never mind. It was a bad joke anyway."

"Joke?" The spy continued to look confused. She quickly replaced her heels with the returned pair pausing to admire them, pleased to have them back. "Time for a drink?" She moved toward the kitchen and arranged the flowers in a glass vase.

"I made the reservation for eight so we probably should head out." Michael explained.

"Well, flowers and an actual reservation. It seems ya know how to sweep a girl off her feet." Fiona was impressed as she grabbed her raincoat. Michael assisted her in putting it on.

Michael McBride did anyway, he thought. None of these actions were instinctual for the spy, but part of the cover he had invented for himself. His style was more akin to how they had spent the past few days, holed up in a secure location with a steady supply of yoghurt and bottled water.

They headed to a small bistro in the Cathedral Quarter. The wine and conversation flowed easily. Michael played his part, acting as most men do in this situation: pulling out her chair, holding her hand, catering to her every need. However, he was not 'most' men, so he couldn't help himself from scanning the patrons, checking for exits, and eavesdropping on conversations around him. Fiona, not being 'most' women, picked up on these subtle signs causing her feelings for him to deepen even more. Chivalry and training, what more could a girl ask for?

"This is lovely. Are all Kilkenny men so gallant? Apparently, I should have visited years ago." There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke.

Michael swallowed hard, then put on his poker face. Prior to the posting he had researched all that he could to find an appropriate origin for Michael McBride. It couldn't be too small a village or his deception would be soon revealed if he met someone from that part of the country. It couldn't be one of the few major cities here or it would be likely his path would have crossed with someone she knew. Kilkenny was a mid sized place, known more for tourists than for rebels. Still, he prepped, prepared to answer any questions posed, even concocting excuses for periods of absence from the town. "Have you never been then?" He was relieved to hear that she hadn't.

"Sadly, no. Is your family still there?" She sipped her wine wanting to learn more about the man seated across from her.

Michael had learned to tell as much of the truth as possible to sell a cover. It minimised the lies he had to tell, and perhaps more importantly, to remember. "Probably. Haven't been home in awhile. You know how it is. It's best to stay away in our line of work. Prevent your family from feeling the wrath of an unhappy customer." Fiona certainly did understand that facet of this life. She paused waiting for him to divulge more. "My da's gone, so it's just my mother and younger brother."

She laughed, "One brother? Are ya sure you're even Irish, then?" She stared open mouthed at the man before continuing. "Did your parents not like one another?" A small family size was unusual for the time. Now that was a question he had not anticipated.

Michael looked serious. "He was a drunk and a lout. Doubt it was possible to like him."

"I'm sorry." She had touched a nerve inadvertently, a touch of her hand over his served as way of an apology of sorts. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers brushing aside the past.

"No worries." He pasted Michael McBride's smile on his face and moved the conversation away from painful memories.

Before long the meal was consumed, the wine bottle empty, the couple satiated. While they finished their coffee, Fiona received an unexpected message. "I need to make a stop at the pub on our way back. It's on the way, as we need to go through Divis Street anyway. The gates nearer me will be long closed at this time." She glanced at her watch noting the time. Michael was still surprised about the division between the two neighbouring communities. Several gates were built into the lines of the Peace Wall. They were routinely locked at night physically separating the Falls from Shankill to minimise flare-ups between the inhabitants.

"Why the stop?" He was surprised that Fiona hadn't mentioned it before now.

"In a hurry to get me alone, are ya now?" She raised an eyebrow before explaining. "Called into a meeting of some sort. Shouldn't take long. Then, I'm all yours." She traced his lips softly with her fingers before placing her own lips on his, a promise of things to come.

Michael was greatly conflicted. On one hand, he wanted nothing more than to get her alone, enjoy the simple pleasures of being with her. But the spy part of him kicked in and he wondered what had precipitated the move - an impromptu meeting late at night. He hoped he would be able to stay close to Fiona during the meeting, perhaps glean its purpose and its participants.

They sat in contented silence on the drive away from the city centre, headed back toward the Falls, until a minor roadside fender bender slowed their progress. "Damn! At this rate, I'll be a wee bit late. Can't you speed it up, Michael?" Fiona was known for her speed and her impatience. She urged her date to jump the curb, drive on the pavement, anything to avoid the stalled traffic.

Michael exhaled slowly, "Next time, you drive." He followed her advice and soon they made the turn onto Divis, closing in on their location. A white van zooming down the road nearly cut them off, Michael slamming on the brakes, cursing at the offending driver. They watched as it hurtled through the area, both growing suspicious of its intent. Fiona reached into her handbag, removing her H&K, in case it was needed. The van door opened and both operatives watched in horror as a firebomb was hurled through the front window of The Black Sand Pub. Michael stopped immediately as Fiona shot at the vehicle in vain. She emptied her clip knowing the target was well out of range, her action pointless. Then, they watched as flames burst through the front and they pondered their next move.


	6. The Tribute

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Tribute**_

"Fi! Fi!" He grabbed her by the elbow. "Is there a back door?"

"Down the alley to the left." Both operatives rushed to the rear of the building to see if there was a way in, if there were survivors. Five men were already emerging from the smoke as they arrived on the scene: Joe, the proprietor and the four men Fiona was planning to meet. They were all coughing, trying to expel the smoke from their lungs, some with cuts from the flying glass, but all seemed relatively intact.

Michael reached them first. "Anyone one else in there?" He was prepared to enter the building, to assist anyone needing help.

"We was just havin' a wee drop waitin' till Fiona got here. Toward the back we were." One of the men explained.

Then, Joe added, "I let Old Jimmy have one more even though it was past the time. He was just at the door when the bloody thing hit." There was a catch in the man's voice as he spoke the words. "He had no chance." Michael looked as if he was going in. "There's no need man, dead he is. We made sure afore we left."

Fiona looked devastated. A tear ran down her cheek.

"Old Jimmy?" Michael, a relative stranger here, wondered about the identity of the bomb's victim.

"You met him, McBride. Had a bit of _craic _the other night, ya did. He told ya to get yer arse over to her instead of moonin' about her." Michael swallowed hard remembering the night and the man at the bar offering his advice. He looked at Fiona wishing he could simply wipe away the pain he saw in her eyes.

"Did youse see anythin' from the street?" Another posed the question as the couple arrived just at the time of the blast.

Fiona answered, "White van blew past us on the road. Blacked out windows and plates. Same pattern."

"UVF? UDA?" The question posed about which opposing paramilitary group was likely responsible.

"Does it matter?" Fiona's tears were being replaced by a growing anger as another senseless killing had taken place. Another to be mourned. Another death to be avenged. The fact that she should have been entering the pub just at that moment was not lost on her, or the others. Someone knew a meet was to happen. This was no random act of violence.

The sound of sirens blaring grew louder. Joe shouted at those gathered, "That'll be the peelers. Off with youse, I'll tell the tale, that it was just me and Old Jimmy." The IRA men that had gathered in the pub barely escaping death, scattered, leaving Michael and Fiona alone with the pub owner. "Youse, too. Go on with ya or youse be spending yer night answerin' questions." Fiona acknowledged the sense of his advice and she led Michael away leaving the car behind.

Her body tensed as they made their way from the torched building, her anger rising with every step. Michael followed at her side, aware of her mounting fury. After a few blocks, she faced him. "Ya should go." Her eyes refused to meet his, her gaze back toward the smoke rising above the rooftops.

Michael wasn't exactly sure what her expression meant, but he was sure that Fiona Glenanne had been spurred to action of some kind. He stood immobile. "Don't think I will. I don't know what you have planned but I'm fairly certain I can help."

"Your help, is it? " Fiona's impatience grew. "I've been doin' just fine on me own, McBride." He grabbed her arm to stop her from storming off. She reared back, delivering a fist to his stomach.

"This isn't your fight, Michael." She barely looked his way.

Michael winced, the blow unexpected and painful. He spoke softly as she moved away. "Maybe I want it to be - since it's yours." The words, unprompted and sincere, gave her pause.

Fiona turned to face him. "Old Jimmy was a Fianna Boy back in the Rising. Later, he fought in the War against partition. Then, he joined us up here, continuin' the struggle. He was there from the beginning! I'll not have his murder unavenged just because Sinn Fein's sittin' down with Stormont havin' a wee chat." Her voice was laced with sarcasm.

Michael saw the woman was determined to cause some mayhem. He also was aware that had the minor traffic accident not slowed them down, it could have been themselves caught in the maelstrom. The American was not about to let her strike out on her own in her current state. She was likely to get herself jailed or worse if her thirst for revenge drove her actions. He needed to remain at her side, assist her in whatever misadventure she was planning. He told himself it was because she was a potential, valuable asset, but his heart knew the true reason.

She took a cold hard assessment of the man in front of her. Just because he supposedly ran some guns didn't make him a trained guerrilla. She had no idea if he had the skills necessary to survive on the streets of Belfast when bullets and bombs were flying. On the other hand, he didn't shy away from the pub explosion. He was ready to jump into the fray. "We need a car." A short statement but an implied partnership.

Michael smiled, as he understood his assistance had been temporarily accepted. He inclined his head toward the right hand side of the street. "Will that one do then?" He indicated a nondescript Ford on the side of the road. She nodded, removed her gun from her handbag, and covered the street as he began the task. Dogs could be heard barking in the neighbourhood as sirens continued to pierce the night. Michael quickly entered the targeted vehicle, hot-wiring it within moments, then both operatives made a speedy escape.

The woman gave directions, avoiding the main roads as much as possible. Michael was directed to a part of the city he was unfamiliar with, wondering if perhaps he misread her acceptance of help, and was headed to his own execution instead. Finally, they arrived, Fiona ordering the car to stop. Michael looked about the street, his senses on alert. Fiona picked up on his unease. "Safe house. Just need to get a few things. Be out in a minute." She exited the car and quickly disappeared through the doorway. His eyes scanned his surroundings. The spy wished he had brought along his weapon but he hadn't expected to need it on his 'date'. Next time, he would be more prepared whatever outing was planned.

She returned within minutes carrying a small holdall. "Drive. That way." She was in operational mode, barking out commands with ease.

"Hope you packed an extra gun in there for me. I have a notion I might be needin' a bit of protection." He kept his eyes on the road.

"Can ya shoot? I'm not wantin' my wheel man to shoot his own foot off." Fiona saw too many men create a false narrative about their abilities in the field in an effort to impress her.

Michael smiled, "Trust me. I can handle it." For some reason, she believed him. She reprimanded herself silently for trusting this man she barely knew. Just because he was a good lover did not mean he belonged out here in the field but for some reason it felt right to have him by her side.

She placed a clip in one of the weapons from her bag and passed it to Michael hoping she had not made a deadly error in trusting the man. "Spare clip, as well. Just in case." He added the request as he kept his eyes on the road. He wanted to have ammunition at the ready fearing he was being led into an unknown battle.

She tossed a clip beside him. Then, added another. "Better to be prepared." This time their eyes met and they shared a conspiratorial smile. The drive continued, Michael weaving through town, finally understanding where they were headed. He shot a knowing glance in her direction. She answered his wordless query. "Not too late to back out, McBride." He refocused his attention forward gunning the engine as his response.

As they drove into the Loyalist area, the die was cast. Michael had committed to an exercise that Tom Card would never have approved no matter how valuable an asset she was. She set to work removing a knife as well as a homemade explosive from her holdall, attaching wires with the skill of the experienced. Once her device was constructed to her satisfaction, she was ready. "Turn down the third street on the left. When we come to the stop sign, slow down but don't stop. I'll pop out quick as ya like." She paused to be sure he was following along. "Drive around the block once and park nearby the brick house on the corner. I'll meet ya there." She waited for confirmation. A nod of his head was noted and the operation was ready to begin.

Rain had begun falling softly, a hazy mist in the air. He slowed to a crawl, lights doused, allowing her a moment to exit the car without incident. He continued down the road just as she had explained but watched her through the rear view mirror for several moments. She darted behind a wall and scanned the street from the shadows. He turned the corner and proceeded around the block. Once returned, he parked at the end of the road, giving himself additional room should something go 'boom' as he anticipated. He had a good view of Fiona as she strode over to a vehicle, bent down, and placed her device on the undercarriage.

The rain started getting stronger. As she completed her task, she looked for him at the designated spot and saw an empty space instead. Her heart skipped a beat wondering if perhaps he abandoned her, either through intent or his own fear, but soon noticed his presence, a smile crossing her face. She skipped lightly through the puddles hurrying to the spot where he was waiting, pulling her raincoat tightly around her. Michael split his attention between surveying the area for signs of trouble and watching the woman who was captivating his mind. Just an hour before they had been relaxed, enjoying dinner out as couples do routinely, now he was assisting her in a covert operation of her choosing.

She reached the car, opening the door, and jumping inside, her clothes dripping from the wet. "_Why'd ya park so far away?" _Her voice reflected the irritation she felt.

_"I didn't want to be blocked in." _Michael was no stranger to these types of operations. He had his own way of doing things. He was open to helping her but fully intended to provide his own expertise, his own experience, when a situation warranted it. In this case it made more operational sense to give the area a wider berth, increasing the chances of getting away clean. She looked annoyed that he had not followed her directions implicitly. An explosion rocked the street. Then he added his main reason._ "I had a notion you were doing more than slashing the tyres." _He gazed at her lovingly. She truly fascinated him in every way possible.

She leaned in closer._ "You think you know me, McBride?"_

He leaned in closer still. _"I'm learning."_ Their lips were about to meet. An explosion larger than the first interrupted the moment as glass shattered, raining down on the once quiet street. Her passion was ignited by the firestorm as her lips hungrily reached for his. The threat of death, the smell of violence, fuelled her emotions, heightened her senses. As much as he wished to continue in this vein, an immediate escape was essential. He pulled away from her lips and the curb, fleeing the scene before others gathered outside.

They dumped the car several blocks away and took to the streets. Both knew it was important to separate. If they had been spotted near the explosion, a search would begin for the car and it's occupants. A couple snogging in a car might be the description given so they would insure they were neither a couple, nor be driving a car. "Meet ya back at my place?" She smiled hoping he would agree to the plan. A slight nod of his head and they disappeared into the night.

Walking through the streets of Belfast in the rain, Michael began to have reservations. No one was hurt in the explosion but he had no idea what he had just accomplished, who was targeted. He needed a few answers before he sunk too deep. He seemed to be veering further and further from his assigned task. His involvement with Fiona was getting complicated. Was she just an asset or something more?

His thoughts unexpectedly turned to his fiancée, or was she now his ex-fiancée for all practical purposes. Samantha. Another betrayal. Another layer of guilt. He tried to avoid thinking about her at all costs. At first, he simply wanted to concentrate on the mission, keep his focus objective, use whatever asset was the most expedient path. Then, he met HER, turning the mission, and his life, upside down.

Samantha would have understood romancing an asset, and she might even have understood sleeping with an asset, but it was doubtful that she would have accepted him developing feelings for that asset.

He agreed to the spontaneous proposal because it seemed less complicated than refusing, after all being with her was exceptionally easy, he thought he might even love her. Now, he realised those feelings were a pale imitation of love. Being with Fiona these past few days was in another realm all together. It was chaotic, consuming, anything but easy, yet he had never felt so alive.

Michael realised an uncomfortable conversation would need to take place once he returned stateside. This was not something that could be handled with a hurried phone call or a cryptic message through Langley. She deserved a face-to-face. The fact remained that there would be no future wedding, at least not with Samantha. But these were thoughts for another day; right now he needed to find his way back, back to Fiona.

He was not as familiar with the streets in this part of town. Fearing he could become hopelessly lost, he simply 'borrowed' another vehicle dumping it off in another part of town, and then travelling the rest of the way on foot.

When he arrived, Fiona had already discarded her wet things and was curled up with a cup of tea, a towel wrapped around her. "There ya are. I was beginning to think ya got yourself nicked."

"I took the scenic route." He grinned and settled by her side. She put the cup down and was ready to remove the towel, but his hand stayed the anticipated movement. "What just happened back there?"

Fiona was anxious to resume where they had left off in the car but she could see that romance was not on Michael's mind at the moment. "A bit of payback in honour of Old Jimmy, I suppose. It seemed fittin' to give them a taste of their own medicine and a tribute to Jimmy that would have delighted him to no end."

"Won't that make things escalate? Thought the idea was to give everyone time to broker a peace of some sort. Keep the ceasefire." Michael wondered if this Irish rebel had just sent the whole peace process back a good many years.

She smiled, a hint of the devil in her eye. "That's why I used one of their own devices. Came across it fortuitously one day and have been saving it for a special occasion. Should confuse the hell out of all of them and keep the 'RA lookin' like innocent victims. " She waited to see how he would react.

Michael cocked his head to one side, staring at her in wonder at the ingenuity of her plan. Then, a huge grin spread across his face. She noted his pleased expression. She often let her emotions dictate her actions but they were rarely foolhardy ventures. "Satisfied?"

"Not yet." He loosened the towel letting it drop to the floor, his mind no longer interested in explosions and politics.

They cheated death tonight; a backdrop for romance that only this couple could appreciate. Tomorrow, questions would need answers, actions would need to be reassessed, and a death would need to be mourned. Tonight, Tom Card, Samantha, the CIA seemed to be players in another life. Tonight, Michael and Fiona, operatives and lovers, revelled in being alive.


	7. The Plan

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Plan**_

This looked like an incredibly bad idea of hers, perhaps even worse than last night's impromptu fireworks display. He didn't fear explosions, an exploding car he could deal with easily. But this... this situation, it made him uneasy.

When she left in the morning to rendezvous with one of her black market associates, they set up a time to meet later that evening. The Black Sand Pub was likely to be out of commission for several weeks between the investigation of the firebombing and the repairs necessary to return to normal business. She suggested another place further down The Falls. It seemed like a sound suggestion, that is, until he walked in the place.

Thirty pairs of eyes greeted him as he walked through the door, nary a smile or a welcoming glance in sight. Their faces were filled with suspicion; the tension could be felt throughout the room as he entered the pub. Michael walked straight to the bar adopting an unconcerned air. He hardened his stare realising this crowd would likely pounce on weakness. He stood there several moments without being approached. The barman intentionally ignoring the stranger encouraging him to leave.

He took note of his surroundings, groaning inwardly at what he observed. The walls were filled with tricolours and GAA posters, leaving no doubt where the patrons' affinities lie. This looked like ground zero of some IRA fan club. He suspected many here were actual volunteers; men who fought the street wars and were suspicious by nature, attacks commonplace and frequent. Based on the looks he received, he surmised they were not the peace-seeking sort. The cold reception was intentional and designed to get the uninvited to leave. But this is where she was planning to meet him so stay here he would. He just had to stay alive long enough to demonstrate he had a specific reason to be present in this place.

Michael took a deep breath and signalled to the barman to draw near. A furtive conversation ensued between the barkeep and a few customers before he finally ambled over to where the American was perched. Michael was met with a cold stare, no words of greeting. "Pint of plain." Michael barked out his order and looked about the room, trying to look relaxed and unfazed by the chilly reception.

The barman gave no response but set himself about the task of pulling the pint. His glance flitted between the stranger at the bar and his regulars. He wanted no trouble this day. The area was skittish enough after last night's attack on The Black Sand. It looked like the stranger came in empty handed but who knew what might be hidden inside his jacket. A slight nod of his head prompted three locals to approach the unknown man.

Michael recognised the subtle signal and he braced himself for whatever was to follow. A trio of unfriendly faces approached. He was flanked by a pair of them while the third stood slightly behind. Michael was blocked in. The rest of the bar looked on, some backing away in case trouble erupted.

The shorter man turned toward Michael, staring openly, hoping to make the newcomer take the hint and turn tail.

Michael met his gaze, a hint of defiance in his expression. He remained silent, waiting for the man to speak.

"This here is a local pub, boyo. Best ya move on." It was meant as an order, not a request.

"Good thing I live just down the road then. Guess that makes me a local." Michael was well aware of the meaning of 'local' in this context. He might live in the area but he had neither grown up here nor was he involved in any capacity with the Army. "Besides, I'm meeting someone."

"Meet 'em somewhere else." The man moved his jacket slightly revealing a weapon, the threat delivered.

Michael looked at the gun, then at the man. "No need for that. Just plan on having a pint while I wait for my friend. Then, I'll be on my way." Michael watched for any sign of attack, prepared to disarm the welcoming committee, if needed.

"And who might yer friend be?" This sounded like a tale without any merit behind it.

The American's eyes narrowed. "That's no concern of yours."

"Yer wrong there. Everthin' in The Falls concerns me and mine." The atmosphere became increasingly heated. Michael refused to make the first move. If violence were to erupt in this place it would not be his doing. An altercation in a heavily republican pub like this would not go unnoticed. If he used his skills it would likely raise suspicions about his identity. If he allowed himself to be beaten up, he would be discounted and his mission jeopardised. He would need to walk the fine line of defending himself suitably without causing serious harm to his attackers. Why did she have to pick this pub? He thought as he steeled himself to receive the anticipated blows.

Just then, the door opened, distracting all momentarily. Fiona Glennane had arrived. She noted the odd tension about the room and wondered perhaps if some heated political discussion had taken place. Pressure seemed to be mounting with each passing day, the bombing at The Black Sand and Jimmy's murder fuelling the fire, no one agreeing on a strategy to go forward. The Provos, the Real, both jockeying for a say in the direction the country was headed, their volunteers split in their allegiances.

She spotted her lover easily and his companions, a smile formed on her face. She stepped lightly over to them, the men watching her approach with interest, the rest of the bar's patrons holding their breath. She stood between Michael and the other, looking at them both in turn. "Well, I see ya've met a few of my brothers."

Michael looked surprised. "Brothers?" He looked at the potential assailants surrounding him.

"Ya know this fella?" The youngest of the trio asked, not quite believing his sister.

"Quite well." The brothers looked at one another, slightly unsure what their next move should be. Fiona saw their confusion and decided to add more detail. "Biblically, in fact."

"Jaysus, Fiona! Ya could've spared us that!" Another brother groaned.

"Is it herself yer meetin' then?" The question posed directly to Michael who nodded slowly. All three men around the spy relaxed slightly.

"Shall I start the introductions then?" Fiona asked the men about her, speaking loudly enough for the crowd, pretending not to listen, could hear. "This is Michael McBride who looks a mite parched. A man in a pub without a proper pint in front of him? What's the world comin' to I wonder?" She glared at the barkeep who immediately brought the long overdue drink to him. "Michael, these are three of my brothers. Sean is the conversationalist. Seems like ya both were already havin' a wee chat. He talks a great deal whether he knows somethin' about the subject or not." She looked directly at her brother in an accusatory fashion. "Declan, the big one behind ya, must have been blocking the air comin' in the door. Afraid he would catch a chill, were ya?" She gave him a gentle slap upside the head. "And the quiet one beside ya is Bobby. He usually has more sense but when dragged along by the other two, even he can lapse into stupidity." Bobby's eyes fell to the floor, sufficiently chastised.

She turned toward the other patrons. "Show's over. Now go back to what youse do best: drinkin', avoidin' your wives, and plottin' to overthrow the bloody British government." Soft laughter broke out and the normal chatter of the pub resumed. "Now, which one of ya is going to buy me a drink?" She looked at all four men, her eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

Michael smiled, then extended his hand, first toward Sean. "Michael McBride." Handshakes were exchanged; a few uncomfortable pleasantries exchanged, and then brothers slipped away leaving the couple to themselves. As he watched them walk away, he spoke to the woman at his side. "You know, you could have warned me about the place when you set the meet."

"I thought ya could handle it. Was I wrong, McBride?" She had a devilish grin on her face. "Of course, I had no idea those three would be here." She rolled her eyes thinking about the encounter.

"So, you mentioned that those were a 'few' of your brothers? Exactly how many more do you have?" There was still a great deal more he had to learn about this woman.

"Five brothers in all." She paused. "Apparently, my Ma and Da did like one another a bit." She winked as she reminded him of their past conversation on the subject. "Now, before any of them return with the idea of defendin' my sullied honour, shall we?" She stood up, prepared to leave. Michael reached for her hand and they began the trek toward home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A few hours later they were hammering out the details of the possible approaches to Hannon and his merchandise. Various options were discussed, many immediately discarded. There was no perfect solution. Each one was fraught with a set of difficulties but the longer they weighed the pros and cons of each, there was a way that Michael favoured despite its risks.

"The best way to take him down might be from the inside." Michael believed that this was likely their best option.

Fiona looked questioningly at him. "From the inside? Ya mean spy on him?"

Michael smiled, "Exactly."

"Could ya really do that? Pretend to be someone you're not?" Fiona looked skeptical. "I know we can all play the game for a few hours or more, but this, Michael, this could take weeks!"

"Trust me. I'll be fine." The words stung as they left his mouth. He asked her to trust him all the while living a life of deception. He no longer could meet her eyes so great was his discomfort. He stood up, walked over to the refrigerator, and grabbed a yoghurt. The familiar movement helped him refocus. Despite his growing feelings for the woman, he was still Michael Westen, an American spy with a job to do.

"While I appreciate your style, this could be a suicide mission, Michael. Hannon's not the trusting sort. He'll be watching ya for any missteps. If he gets an inkling ya are not who ya say ya are, he'll shoot you dead, he will." Her eyes widened as she explained the hazards of his proposal. "At least that's what I would do." In Fiona's mind there was only one way to deal with betrayal.

"Then, I'll be convincing." His smile was forced. How could he possibly explain that this type of mission came naturally to him? He put on another identity as easily as a shirt in the morning. He could manipulate others without remorse if it was for the greater good. He could walk through life unattached, using assets, leaving them behind when they had served their purpose. How could he tell her all these things about himself that were true - until now?

There was something disquieting in his expression, something she could not quite read. "How would ya do it? How would ya get close enough to spy on him?" Fiona wondered if he had thought of an actual strategy to implement his idea.

Michael now moved into familiar territory, focusing on the mission instead of himself. "We convince him that I can be useful."

"And how to ya propose to do that?" She looked askance. Persuading someone as cagey as Hannon sounded simple but would likely be highly complex, and assuredly dangerous.

"You've told me that there are few secrets in the Falls. That everyone in the pub knows, or suspects, that we're, uh,..." Michael let his words drift off.

"...sleeping together? That's a fair assumption. Especially as I announced as much at The Red Devil tonight." Fiona was amused by his awkwardness.

"We use that to our advantage." Fiona looked puzzled unsure of how that fact would gain him access to Hannon. "What if I had gotten close to you to gain some knowledge of your operation? Maybe I had ideas of setting up my own business here. Or, maybe I decided to throw in with Hannon, use what I know about you to get a piece of Hannon's action." He paused to be sure that she was following his train of thought. "I approach Hannon with a deal. I give him information about you in exchange for a percentage."

"I'm not sure I'm loving this plan, Michael." Fiona's unease increased. All this subterfuge was a bit out of her comfort zone. She was used to striking quickly without warning, then retreating to safety. All this cloak and dagger sounded like something out of the cinema rather than a real life operation.

"I'll only feed him what you want me to. There must be some stash of guns you could give up. If the plan works, you'll get everything back." Michael needed some merchandise as way of introduction.

"That's a big 'if'." This plan seemed a bit risky, but she was not one to steer clear of risk. "There are some old Thompsons I could part with. They have significant value with collectors, not much use in the field these days. Hannon might like that sort of thing."

Michael grinned, "Then that's our opening. I trade those Thompsons for access. Tell him there's a lot more to come if we work together."

"Won't he think it odd that I'm all right with ya working with him?" Michael remained silent, his expression slightly pained while Fiona worked out the details. "Oh, I see ya expect me to play the fool. Sleepin' with me at night while screwin' me during the day, is that it?" Michael prepared himself for the blow that she would likely deliver but her arms merely crossed indicating her displeasure with the idea. "I like your plan less and less, McBride." She pursed her lips, a pout of sorts forming there.

"It may be the only way to get Hannon. Put him away for a long time." Michael's tone was sincere. Fiona thought about the guns that passed through Hannon's hands. She had always known he had no scruples about where they landed as long as the money was good. Now, she had a chance to stop that stream, perhaps save some other family from the excruciating pain of losing a sister, a daughter, a friend,...

She watched her lover's face for any sign of doubt. There was none. He was confident that he could play the 'spy'. Men and their games! What the hell, she thought! She could spare losing the Thompsons if it came to that. The man, however, she was more reluctant to part with.

"Fine." She agreed. "But while I'm putting my inventory at risk, I expect compensation in other ways." Her expression turned suggestive, her body entwining itself around his.

"Gladly." Michael leaned in believing that this may possibly be the best deal he ever negotiated. He just had to hope he could pull it off or Hannon would be the least of his troubles.

The spy had no doubt that Fiona could prove to be an adversary far worse than the targeted arms dealer. He was putting her business and her heart at risk, a dangerous combination. This had to work! If not, she may wind up with a hole in her heart and he with a hole in his head. Michael Westen, the American spy, intended to use all of his training and skills to be sure neither happened.


	8. The Trap

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Trap**_

He watched her, resting on his elbow, as she prepared for the day. He had never really been interested in a woman 's toilette before, but like everything else about her, he found it fascinating. Those hands that could glide over his skin so gently could also assemble a weapon rapidly or create an explosive device with ease. He watched her fingers braid and twist her long tresses into a knot at the nape of her neck.

She knew that he was ogling her, urging her with his eyes back to the comfort of his arms. "Don't be lookin' at me like that! I've got to go."

"Do you want me to come?" Michael asked her once more.

Fiona shook her head. "No. I think yer right that this would be the best time to approach Hannon. He'll know where I am, why we're not together. Easy to sell him on why ya picked this moment to approach him and propose a partnership." She still had some misgivings about their plan but was committed to make the attempt. In some ways she hoped Michael would be rebuffed and they would need to devise another method to take the gunrunner down. She was uncomfortable with the thought of Michael putting himself in harm's way, pretending to use her for his own ends. It was a heinous thought to betray one so close to you. She hoped that Michael could pull it off.

"The wake will go on till the wee hours. Ya know how these things go." He nodded slightly, agreeing with her statement but in truth he had no idea what an Irish wake entailed, other than whiskey seemed to be involved. "Will ya come after?" She asked as she continued dressing. She was to be part of the Honour Guard flanking Old Jimmy's coffin during the viewing.

"I will." He agreed, rising slowly, joining her. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms about her as they both looked forward. "As long as things go smoothly." One never knew what turns an operation could take. Fiona was the link between the two men; a connection that Michael was unable to use under the current plan. So, he was walking in cold, without backup, no go between to make the appropriate introductions. The spy had to hope that Hannon's greed would override his caution as Fiona's weapons supply was dangled before him.

"And if things don't go smoothly?" A shadow crossed Fiona's face, wanting to hear words of encouragement, understanding any promises were meaningless. He remained silent and gently buried his face in her neck, giving her the only answer he was able.

There was nothing left to say. They moved slightly apart. She regarded herself in the mirror, placing the black beret atop her head. She turned to face him, no longer looking like the woman he was falling in love with but rather like a member of an unlawful paramilitary group, the types of people Michael Westen often sought to destroy. When she was in his arms, he sometimes forgot this is also who she was. She noticed the rapid change in his expression. It was evident that this part of her made him uncomfortable. She wasn't quite sure why, as he seemed to be a supporter of the struggle. This was the first time he saw her in traditional PIRA uniform, a rare instance reserved for important occasions.

Michael quickly regained his composure, making a jest to lighten the mood. "What no balaclava?"

"Not for the wake, ya_ eejit, _that's for tomorrow at the funeral!" Michael gave her that look, the one she noticed every time that she said or did something he did not expect. She placed a soft kiss on his lips. "For luck."

"Do I need luck then?" He was reluctant to let her leave.

"Approachin' Hannon uninvited without as much as a slingshot? I'd say ya need a field of clovers." Fiona applauded his confidence. He hoped he had the skills to accompany that bravado or Jimmy's wake may not be the only one she'd be attending. She walked slowly away, pausing at the door to take one last look at the man. A slight nod of his head bid her goodbye and the door closed behind her leaving Michael alone once more.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael sauntered into the cafe where Hannon would likely be found at this hour. A cold approach is never ideal but sometimes it's the only option. He strode in with confidence. His forward progress abruptly halted by a burly security guard manning the entrance. "The place is closed. Best shove off."

The directive was unambiguous but Michael was not easily swayed. "I'm not here for the coffee. I have a proposition. One I think your boss might be interested in." The man did not flinch, nor make a move to inform his boss that he had a visitor. Michael flashed an understanding smile, turned slightly as if to leave, then swung back delivering a blow that incapacitated the fellow. Michael stepped over his inert body and made his way over to Hannon's table.

The gunrunner stopped eating momentarily but soon tucked back into his Ulster fry as Michael settled into the empty chair at the table. It wasn't until he was seated that he noticed the guns pointed in his direction. "In case you hadn't noticed, I prefer to dine alone." Michael looked about the empty cafe, Hannon the only patron. He counted three guards in the room, all armed and with grim expressions.

"You're a hard man to meet. Thought this might be the best place to introduce myself." Michael tried to sound relaxed despite his lack of backup if things went awry.

"And why would I want to meet the likes of you? Wheel man, are you? I'll not be needing those services, boyo." Hannon tore into a rasher with gusto.

"Lets just say I'm tired of cars and I have a notion to move up in the world." He reached into his jacket and the guns drew closer. He waved them off, opening his jacket to reveal no weapon, and then slipped a photo onto the table for Hannon's inspection. "I'd like you to meet the Thompsons. It's a rather large family but I thought I'd start out with the oldest of the group."

Hannon was confused. He examined the photograph that contained a parcel of collectible Thompsons. "Where'd you get this?" His interest was piqued but that didn't mean he would entertain the notion of bringing him into the fold.

"It's part of Fiona Glenanne's stock." Michael reached across the table, taking a piece of toast from the rack.

"And why would you be bringing this to me?" Hannon watched the spy's movements and made no comment regarding the toast, which Michael took to be a positive sign.

"Thought you might be interested. Is that jam?" He reached toward the small bowl in the centre of the table.

Hannon stopped chewing "Interested in what exactly?"

Michael spread the jam on the toast "Interested in getting your hands on some of her supplies. You see, she and I, well, we've gotten quite friendly." He smile was wide. Then he took a bite of the toast, his face contorting at the taste. "Is this grape? I was hoping for blueberry."

"I've wanted to tap that one myself. Bit of an ice princess. What makes you think you can deliver some of her Thompsons - to me?" Hannon made no comment about the intruder sharing his breakfast but concentrated on the man before him trying to ascertain if he was a complete _amadan _or if there was something to his claims.

"She trusts me. She's letting me in, in more ways than one." He laughed at his own double entendre, feeling uncomfortable with this comment the moment the words left his lips. "I intend to use her trust to line my pockets. I'd need a distributor though so I thought perhaps a partnership. I get the guns; you add them to your 'collection'. We split the profits." Michael dropped the toast and his expression turned earnest.

"And why should I trust the likes if you?"

"Because she has what you want... the link to the IRA arsenal if they disarm. And I have what she wants." He paused, his smile oozing arrogance. "Think about it. You can reach me at that number." He handed Hannon a card with his mobile number. Then, he stood up as he prepared to leave. "Don't be waitin' too long now. There are others who may be interested, as well." With that, he exited stepping over the still unconscious security guard. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hannon pick up the card and slip it into his pocket before he took a large swig of coffee. The trap had been set.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He put off going to the pub as long as possible. Michael Westen was uncomfortable with outward displays of emotion, preferring to keep those sentiments locked deep inside him. The scene following the wake was likely to be laden with sentiment, the whiskey flowing along with tears and tales of the deceased. He would be expected to contribute, something about the man's valiant past, a reference to a fallen hero perhaps, but his depth of knowledge in this area was limited. The struggle for Irish independence was not a subject taught in American schools and he feared his ignorance would be noted, suspicions raised. Michael knew that she would be waiting, curious as to how the meeting with Hannon went, but he wanted others to be well in their cups before he made his appearance so that any lapses in knowledge would be barely noticed.

As he approached he noticed the flashing lights, the crowd milling in front of the pub, the gawkers gathered on the opposite corner of the street. His pace quickened as worry washed over him. The RUC patrol cars were just pulling away from the curb as he arrived. A lone ambulance remained at the scene. His feet crunched the broken glass, splashes of blood scattered along the worn floorboards, as he crossed the threshold.

Then he saw her. She was facing him but her face was turned downward. The fatigues replaced by a black sheath dress, which was unzipped slightly and pulled down around her shoulders. A paramedic stood behind addressing a gash across her upper back. Relief washed over him upon spotting her and he slowly advanced taking note of the damage, the wounded, the sorrow, and the anger. Slight nods of those gathered acknowledged his arrival but little conversation was taking place, waiting until the last of the medical personnel had vacated the premises.

Fiona sensed his approach and glanced upward. The concern in his eyes was easily read. A small smile reassured him. "It's not so bad," referring to the wound being attended to. He took note of her injuries: several small cuts along the back of her, a deeper gash recently stitched, her hose torn and bloodied.

"What the hell happened?" He searched her face for answers.

The paramedic finished, handed Fiona some antiseptic cream and care instructions, and disappeared into the night. "Drive by. UVF likely. Seems my wee surprise the other night was not as clever as I hoped." She might have fooled the RUC but the opposition knew the tactics of their foe and were not so easily tricked. She continued, "Sprayed the place with automatic gunfire. Seemed like hundreds of rounds. It's a bloody miracle no one was killed."

"Casualties?" Michael assisted in zipping up her now tattered dress and switched from worried lover to operative.

"A few. Couple of people taken to the hospital. A few who required medical attention but needed to stay clear of the RUC will get help another way." Michael understood that occasionally performing your own brand of field medicine was better than a hospital stay in cuffs. "I hit the floor the moment it started so I escaped the worst of it." He reached out and softly stroked her face. Fiona reached for his arm holding his hand in place, relishing the comfort, wanting it to continue. "And your meeting?" She wanted to ask more but circumstances dictated discretion.

"About what we expected." Michael didn't want to talk about Hannon. He wanted to focus on her, wishing he had arrived sooner, regretting his tardiness.

As the last of the emergency services left, the mood shifted. The people from the street filtered back in, joined by those who had been nearby at Caffreys. Angry voices dominated the conversation. First, The Black Sand Pub was bombed, now a drive by at The Red Devil. Two messages sent with unambiguous meanings. This war, despite the news reports to the contrary, was far from over. Some advocated a quick retaliation. Others urged calm wanting to preserve the ceasefire, refusing to be goaded into destroying the peace process. The debate was heated and prolonged. Michael had difficulty following some of the talk but had no trouble recognising the volatile situation brewing. Card was right: this place was ready to explode!

A loud voice broke through the bickering storm. Michael identified the face of a frequent patron, Donnelly, his name, who pointed out the first order of business. "Before we get ahead of ourselves. We need a plan for tomorrow." Tomorrow, they would lay one of their own to rest. Old Jimmy would make his final journey down The Falls Road to Milltown Cemetery where he would join the other fallen heroes of the movement. His coffin would be draped with a tricolour, a black beret, and gloves in tribute for his service. An IRA Honour Guard would accompany the funeral cortège, several volunteers would flank the procession, and Fiona would be one of them. "The UVF will know where we'll all be headin'. We're sittin' ducks if they'd be wantin' to pick us off." Quiet murmurs of agreement could be heard among the crowd. "We'll be needin' a plan."

Sean Glenanne chimed in with an idea. "I'll get a team of snipers together. Post 'em along the route, I will. We'll be ready if they make a move." Several men in the crowd volunteered, Sean agreeing to their help.

His thoughts in turmoil, the American reviewed the scene about him, his gaze falling upon his bloodied 'asset', pondering the fate she narrowly avoided. She would be in that procession tomorrow, he couldn't risk losing her again. Michael raised his hand applying his name to the proposed task. Fiona shot him a look of surprise. "This isn't a game McBride. I'm needin' those who can do the job." Sean spoke quickly. He didn't need the help of his sister's love struck puppy.

Michael's countenance turned steely. "Trust me. I can handle it."

Fiona whispered, "I appreciate the thought but ya have no idea..."

He cut her off before she could speak further, "I didn't just run guns, Fiona. I know how to use them. You've been impressed by some of my other talents." He gave her a suggestive look. "Let's just say they pale in comparison to how a handle a sniper rifle."

Her eyebrows raised in surprise, intrigued by this new revelation. "Well, then, McBride, let's see what ya got." She turned to her brother and nodded, delivering an unmistakable message.

"All right, McBride, yer in." It was time for Michael McBride to step into the light.


	9. The Procession

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Procession**_

It was an uneasy night as they prepared for the unexpected. Brother and sister carefully monitored their new recruit, watching his every move as he cleaned and prepared the weapons. Neither could find fault with his work. Michael found it amusing that his proficiency was questioned. He hadn't had this much overseeing since his early days at Camp Rhino.

Fiona stole glances at her lover hoping that she had not misplaced her good sense. She took him at his word, trusting that he had the skills he claimed. So far, he had. He knew how to handle the guns, dismantling and reassembling them with ease. She gave him several types, testing him in a way. She had vouched for him, relying not on experience of the man's abilities but simply on faith.

Michael easily saw through her ruse but happily complied. After all, a skilled operative needed to be cautious when bringing in a newcomer to ensure he or she possessed the skills needed to complete the mission. If anything, the spy was reassured by her thoroughness, her attention to detail.

When all was ready, they settled down for a brief respite. The others would be arriving in a few hours and then the stage would be set. Each player would be assigned a position, each duty would be outlined, but for now, sleep was required. Michael took a space against the wall. Sean settled himself across the room but where he had a clear vantage point to keep track of the new man.

Fiona saw their unspoken enmity wondering if she was the cause. It was not always easy growing up with five older brothers. Besides the bathroom issues, the heavily male centred conversations around the table, and the constant references to her weak female state, they tended to hover about her more than necessary. Perhaps, it was losing Claire that caused them to be so protective. Sweet Claire! A stab of pain and remorse always accompanied her memory.

Her baby sister was the one that everyone loved. She was beautiful in body and in spirit. She was tall and slender with long blonde hair and blue eyes that lit up a room. More importantly, she had the personality to match her angelic exterior. Claire had a kind word for whomever she met. If ever there was a '_Belle of Belfast City', _Claire could have been her personified. That all ended one day with a bullet.

The brothers were left with her now, more fairy than princess. All bore the guilt of not watching over their littlest angel, the one who deserved the name. Instead they tried to guard the _bean-sidhe_ of the family, quick to anger, screeching her rage at the world. It was an unpleasant task at best as she often did exactly what she pleased despite the risks.

She took one last look at her brother before moving toward Michael. He welcomed her with his arms and she settled herself between his outstretched legs, placing her lacerated back upon his chest, a slight wince of pain accompanied the movement. The American noted her reaction and wanted to suggest that she bow out of tomorrow's event. The gash in her shoulder would likely affect her reflexes, possibly making the difference between survival and death should it come to that. But he knew her well enough at this point that the suggestion would not only be unheeded but would likely propel her to some desperate measure to prove her competence, so he remained silent. He would act as her second, with or without her knowledge or consent.

Michael wrapped his arms around her. In the field, her presence seemed considerably larger and here in his arms, he marvelled about how tiny she actually was. They both watched as Sean turned away burying his face in his jacket, an expletive bursting from his lips. His actions did not go unnoticed. Michael whispered in her ear. "I think he hates me."

"What do ya expect, McBride? You're shagging his wee sister." Fiona smirked, her comment loud enough for her brother to hear.

"Shite, Fiona, ya'll be the death of me, ya will!" Sean buried his face deeper into the jacket. "And McBride, the only sounds I better hear comin' from yer side of the room, better be snorin' or we'll be one gun less on the rooftops tomorrow." Then, he bolted upright, staring at his sister and pointing a finger in her direction. "And you, little sister, don't be takin' that as a challenge." He curled into a ball while the couple opposite suppressed their quiet laughter.

Fiona turned slightly and made a suggestive overture to her partner despite, or possibly due to her sibling's warning. The American spy stared at her incredulously. He might have difficulty keeping his hands off her under most circumstances, but in this situation he intended to refrain from their usual exploits. Fiona received the unspoken message and settled back into his arms. It was time to sleep. Dawn was inching ever closer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sound of footsteps roused the trio from slumber, instantly springing to full alertness in seconds.

Men with blackened faces carrying weapons and balaclavas filled the room. Michael was pleased to see that Sean was merely the recruiter for the operation, the planning directed by Donnelly, the man who spoke last night about the need for action. A map of the route was spread out as Donnelly pointed out where each volunteer was to be positioned. He emphasised the importance of restraint. Theirs was to be a defensive campaign ensuring the safety of the cortège, the respect due to Old Jimmy on his final trip through the Falls. A warning was issued that spontaneous gunfire from their side would be met with an immediate court-martial - or worse. Michael was impressed with Donnelly's assessment and strategy.

"Sinn Fein's already up our arse wantin' the RUC to 'monitor' the proceedings, to keep the boys from either side in line. Told 'em Ol' Jimmy would be hauntin' us fer eternity if I let the bastards at his funeral." Uncomfortable laughter followed the comment. "We'll take care of our own, we will, just as we always do." Donnelly spoke with authority and experience having spent nearly thirty years in the movement.

The snipers were to be in place before daybreak, before any informants in the area would be aware of their presence. Divis Tower was a behemoth of a structure at the start of The Falls, with a view encompassing much of the area. It was often suspected that several 'residents' of the housing estate cooperated with the Brits or the affiliated groups to watch for any clandestine activity on the part of the IRA. Darkness helped disguise their movements, give them a hint of invisibility, at least for a short time.

Donnelly took Fiona aside murmuring further instructions. Michael assumed that she was to pass along some information to the other members of the Honour Guard. They would be armed and have a part to play should violence erupt. It was imperative they knew where the 'RA hidden snipers would be stationed to lessen the chances of friendly fire casualties. The American watched as she assimilated the tactical plan, sealing it to memory. A last look toward Michael and a soft smile was the only inkling of a goodbye. Sentimentality had little place in war.

Then, the florid faced Irishman headed his way. "Ready, McBride?"

Michael was confused. He had already been given his positioning orders, then it dawned on him. "Are you my chaperone then?" Michael Westen, regarded somewhat as a Boy Wonder in the Agency, found himself in an unfamiliar position.

"Partner, I'd call it. Yer new here. Wantin' to be sure ya stick to our ways." The man put his hand forward indicating they should head out. "Me eyes ain't what they used ta be. Never fully recovered after the hunger strike."

"You were part of that?" Michael recalled the incident. He was in his first year of high school when the halls were abuzz with the story. Those ten men starved themselves to death gaining worldwide attention of their plight, their need to be considered political prisoners rather than criminals. Until recently, it was the only thing he really knew about Ireland.

"Not the successful one, or I wouldn't be here to tell the tale, would I now? The one before." Michael pretended to know what he was referring to. "I was in the Cages for a few years back then. Most of us spent some time there, at one time or other. Some of us more than others. That's how I met Fiona's da. We were interned together." This was news to Michael, he didn't remember reading it in her file. "Her da's favourite, she was. I know a man's not supposed to favour one child over another but sometimes ya can't help it. After all those boys, she come along. Wantin' to be like her brothers. Full of spitfire that one. Gave her ma a run, she did, especially after Claire." The man grew silent thinking about the day they lost the teenager, the rioting and mayhem that followed her death. He hoped to never see another week like that one.

They arrived at the building, which was to be their perch. Donnelly grabbed Michael's arm before making the climb. "Fiona vouched for ya, McBride. Her word is good enough for me but if it looks like her trust was misplaced, I won't hesitate to put a bullet through yer head. Are we clear?" The Irishman's usually jovial expression was replaced by the icy cold stare of a killer.

Luckily, as a spy Michael had learned to sublimate his fear as he peered into his 'partner's' eyes. "Crystal." They slowly scaled the building. Once on the roof, both lay prone. Michael set up his rifle ready for whatever may come his way. Donnelly held his 9mm intending to keep his charge honest. And both waited for the day to begin.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The bells began to peal and the mourners trickled out of the church now that the Mass had concluded. Slowly, the cortège began to take shape. The casket draped with the tricolour would lead the way making the trip from St. Paul's Church to Milltown Cemetery. Hundreds had filled the church and more lined the route to pay homage to one of their own, another martyr of the cause. The Honour Guard flanked the coffin, black masked and fully outfitted, lending no doubt to their affiliation. The family and all others gathered followed behind. Slowly, the procession moved out as Jimmy took his final trip down The Falls. The mood was solemn, heads were bowed, prayers said, as the cortège passed through the street. There were others planted in the crowd keeping alert for any potential disturbances to the event, prepared to spring into action to keep the crowd safe.

Fiona began her march, keeping her focus forward, trying to use her peripheral vision to scan her surroundings. She knew where the snipers were positioned, feeling more at ease whenever she passed by one of their posts. The Irishwoman could almost sense the intense observation from informants peering out from Divis Tower, reporting back to whomever they worked for, whether it be for ideology or cash. She hoped no trouble would find them this day but this was Belfast, a city that knew more than its share of sorrow. A steady cadence propelled the procession, each step a victory of sorts. Fiona concentrated on the road ahead.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Four men slipped through the gates at Lanark Way, using the derelict buildings along the interface for cover until the time was right. "No unauthorised action" had been the final word from the UVF leadership. They would see about that! The whispers regarding the talks in Stormont seemed a wee bit too 'Green' for their tastes. The bombing and the assault on the Fenian pubs were intended to spur the Provos to action, show they weren't as hell bent on peace as Sinn Fein proposed. No one except those in the government was fooled by the retaliatory strike - the explosion of the brigadier's personal vehicle. It was time to take the war back to their streets, make them run with blood as they had done in the past.

Funeral processions were the perfect target! Crowds of people packed together, most lost in grief, letting their guard down and assuming others would respect the solemn occasion. Of course, they had hoped for four caskets making the trip. The tip had come in about the meeting at The Black Sand. They rallied quickly but a 90-year-old man had been their only victim. As he was regarded somewhat as a legend, it was not a complete failure as his demise had flung a volley at the enemy. Now, they would launch a full-scale attack. Nothing got the bloody Fenians as riled up as a few civilian deaths. Bullets would fly once again and peace would be forgotten until the _taigs _were gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael wished for a better position for his perch. They settled on the west side of a roof top gable, out of view of any spying eyes from Divis but height was a problem for any building in the area. He longed for a nice Miami skyscraper or at least a beach hotel. Here, his view was somewhat limited but years in the desert had told him what was important in guerrilla warfare.

It wasn't long before he noticed some suspicious movement. The corner of his eye caught the recognisable stride of a covert operation in play - the feigned nonchalance, the hurried movements, the constant surveillance of the area. Michael slowly trained his scope on two pairs of men winding their way down to the main thoroughfare, taking the scenic route through alleys and smaller lanes.

His finger now touched the trigger lightly, his senses on alert. Donnelly noticed the reaction and grabbing his binoculars followed his partner's gaze. "Ya got somethin', McBride?"

"Two men. Two o'clock heading southwest. Another two stationary." Michael kept his rifle trained on the pair.

"Could be nothin'. Coupla boyos out to see Ol' Jimmy off, eh?" Donnelly had difficulty ascertaining the subtleties that Michael observed. "Keep 'em in yer sights, just in case."

Michael watched as the men reached within a block of The Falls, pressing their bodies to the wall. Two of the men held paper bag covered bottles appearing to be hiding their drink at this time of day, an all too common sight in an area of high poverty and frequent unemployment. The cortège drawing closer to where they were positioned.

Fiona smiled slightly as she neared the spot where Michael was to be perched. She hoped Donnelly wasn't being too onerous on her new lover. He had a reputation for being a demanding taskmaster with newer recruits. Michael may regret volunteering for the assignment but she would find a way to make it up to him. The thought filled her with pleasure. She felt a wee bit tawdry, especially during a funeral procession, as lascivious thoughts wormed into her mind, but the man drove her to distraction.

He spotted her immediately taking his eyes off his targets for a fraction of a second. She was easy to find. Only one member of the Honour Guard was short of stature, a slight swing of the hips to her stride. Michael refocused on his prey, his finger never leaving the trigger, but something had changed - masks had appeared where only flesh was moments before. Then, he saw the unmistakable signs of terror as a grenade and an AK-47 appeared without warning; the paper covered bottles about to become Molotov Cocktails, hurled into the crowd causing death and destruction. The American's eyes narrowed as he prepared to strike.


	10. The Invitation

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Invitation**_

There was no mistaking what was about to happen. An event that had happened too often in the past of this troubled city: a funeral turned into political statement. The cortège and the assailants were about to meet, with Fiona in the immediate crossfire. One pull of the trigger, one throw of the grenade and Michael would lose her forever.

"Grenade. AK. I'm taking them down." Michael didn't wait for the order; he didn't have seconds to waste on a chain of command. He had the instincts and the training to act upon the information available to him at the moment. Four men were about to unleash hell on the funeral procession passing before him. He could not let that happen, not when he had the expertise to stop it.

He fired... once... then again. Both men dropped immediately, dropped before they could begin their intended rampage. The other two, the ones who wielded the potential firebombs, abandoned their bottles and fled the scene without delay, scampering back to the Shankill before bullets cut them down, as well.

Fiona saw a flicker of movement turning her head slightly to get a better view. Two masked men approaching the procession, armed and prepared to inflict mayhem and death. Her eyes met with the gunman, an evil smile on his face as he prepared to fire. Fiona reached behind for her own weapon but before she could draw, a sniper's bullets found their marks. The threats were neutralised. Their bodies fell immediately to the pavement.

Chaos erupted as the sound of sniper fire could be heard. Some ducked for cover, some ran into open doorways lining the route, and several guns appeared throughout the crowd. This was a city that knew war, knew terror. They waited for what might come next, covering their children, their loved ones, as best they were able. Then, silence. No additional gunfire, no explosions or the sound of crunching glass.

Fiona had the foresight to 'accidentally' topple an avid cameraman from the local news station. She was unaware of exactly what was transpiring but discretion seemed to be the wisest course of action until it could be determined. What was known is that there were two bodies on the ground. Fiona glanced up at the rooftop where Michael had been positioned. The bullets had come from his perch, of that she was certain. Apparently, her trust had not been misplaced. A wave of satisfaction coursed through her.

Michael had no time to rest on his laurels. The moment the assailants fell, Donnelly took the lead. "Bloody hell, McBride. Ya can shoot, I'll say that fer ya. Just hope ya made the right call or we'll be buried, we will." He started moving across the roof swiftly, followed closely by the sharpshooter. They needed to remove themselves from the area at once before the British officials or the RUC arrived to investigate.

Michael said nothing. He knew his actions were justified. He just saved not only Fiona's life but a great many other innocent bystanders, as well. He doubted very much that Tom Card, his training officer would concur. He had exceeded the parameters of his mission. He could almost hear the scolding Card would have unleashed upon him. These were the kind of things that could get an operative 'burned' - perish the thought! But she was still breathing and at the moment that was all that was important to the American spy.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Let me show my appreciation, Michael, your sniper skills may have just saved my life." Fiona purred the words as she moved astride of him.

"You thanked me three times already." Michael reached toward her. "Not that I'm complaining." Their lips had been about to meet when the ringing of a mobile dampened the mood.

Fiona reached over to the bedside table, grabbed the offending instrument, and handed it to her partner, a scowl on her face. She hoped the call was brief so they could return to the business at hand.

"Hannon. Nice to hear from you." Michael's tone grew serious. Fiona unfurled herself from his body so that he was better able to concentrate on his caller. She listened to the conversation as Michael increased the volume making it easier for her to hear.

"Sounds like you've been a busy boy, McBride." Hannon had already heard the man's name linked to yesterday's events. At first he thought the newcomer was a bit of a chancer, but now it was clear that the man had a skill set that could prove useful to someone in his position. "Was hoping you'd meet me around nine this morning. I'll even buy you your own breakfast this time."

"I'll be there." Michael ended the call. Turning toward Fiona, he added. "Looks like I'm in."

"Ready to sell me out, are ya?" Fiona was still uncomfortable with the current strategy but Michael had proven that he could be trusted. Even Donnelly had to admit that he saved the day by dealing with the assailants before they had time to set their plan into motion. And Donnelly was stingy with praise, at best.

"If there was another way, Fi... " Michael placed his hand gently along the side of her face, hating his many acts of betrayal.

She placed his hand over his, the sheet slipping downward exposing more of her. "Well, maybe you can make it up to me?"

Michael grinned, "I'll need to take a rain check if I'm to meet Hannon on time." He was fairly certain he knew what she intended.

"Actually, I had somethin' else in mind." She paused until she had Michael's full attention. "I was hopin' ya would come to tea with me at mam's on Sunday." Her green eyes widened, a flutter of nervousness accompanied her request. Perhaps, it was too soon in their relationship to be asking but she hoped he would say yes.

"Tea?" Michael envisioned lace doilies, china cups emblazoned with roses, and tiny finger sandwiches laden with mayonnaise. His expression was filled with disdain at the thought.

"Yes, Michael. Tea." Fiona was beginning to feel annoyed: annoyed with herself for asking the question, annoyed with the man for his hesitation and his disgusted expression. "I make an appearance at least monthly to tea at my mother's. This week, one of my myriads of nephews is being christened, so it's expected that I be there. I was hopin' ya would join me."

Michael had a deer in the headlights sort of look on his face. "Look, Fi, I'm not really a tea sorta guy." He held up his hand indicating the act of holding a teacup, his pinkie extended in mockery.

"Sometimes, I wonder if we actually speak the same language, Michael." Now, her irritation broke through unambiguously. "I didn't say High Tea with the bloody Queen. I said tea. You know, a roast, tatties, possibly a crumble for pudding. Tea."

"That sounds like dinner." The American was completely befuddled.

"Dinner?" Now, it was her turn to be confused. "Kilkenny seems to be a world of its own." Fiona raised one eyebrow as she focused on Michael. It seemed as if he was often clueless about the most commonplace parts of life. It was almost as if he suddenly appeared in Ireland unaware of its social expectations and customs. She pursed her lips awaiting an answer and picked up the sheet wrapping it tightly around her body, the deliberate action speaking loudly to Michael. "Would ya like to come to tea or not?" Fiona demanded an answer, pretending that she did not care about his final answer. But, she cared deeply. It had been years since she invited anyone home. A string of dalliances were hardly the types to bring into the family fold, but this man was different. She looked away reading his hesitation for refusal.

Michael sensed her evolving mood: nervousness to irritation to despair. The spy would rather stick a hot poker in his eye than attend any family gathering, especially his own. He noticed how she pretended that his answer was immaterial, how she no longer could meet his eyes. Once again, Michael Westen planted his cover's smile upon his face. "I would love to." Fiona looked up, reassured by his expression. "But now, I have to go meet a gun dealer." He placed a kiss on the top of her head, and then headed off to the shower. As he walked away he thought how much better breakfast with an unscrupulous arms dealer sounded than Sunday tea with the Glenannes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He sauntered into the cafe after receiving death glares from the now upright bodyguard at the entrance. Once spotted, Hannon greeted his guest, ushering him into the chair opposite his.

"Coffee?" The arms dealer poured himself a cup, then another for Michael. "Glad you could join me on such short notice." A traditional Irish fry appeared within moments. Hannon tucked into his without delay. Michael could see breakfast was the first order of the day, business placed to the back burner temporarily. The American stared at his plate: fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bacon, a few mushrooms, a tomato, and an indistinguishable blob, which he surmised to be black pudding. A rack of dry toast was soon set on the table. He couldn't understand why everyone here simply didn't drop dead from heart failure before the age of forty, though he acknowledged the traditional American breakfast was not likely any healthier. He nibbled at parts of it wishing for a nice container of yoghurt.

"So, McBride, I've been giving your proposition some thought." Hannon continued to study the man before him.

"And?" Michael could sense that Hannon was interested but had reservations.

"The incident yesterday, well, if the stories I'm hearing are accurate, you have other skills bedsides driving. I'm curious how you might have come by them." The arms dealer's smile was menacing.

Michael knew his sniper skills would draw unwanted attention and questions. Unfortunately, he felt he had no choice. Of course, Card would have told him he never should have been on the damn roof in the first place. "Don't mix with the natives any more than is absolutely necessary," was his frequent mantra. The spy launched into his prepared tale. "You know what this place is like. Not too many jobs around here and I'm really not political. Left home, like many do. Worked awhile in the Balkans, trained in 'security'."

"Mercenary, then?" Hannon began to see a picture emerge.

Michael shrugged. "Call it what you like. It paid the bills." He paused and saw subtle signs that Hannon was buying into his tale. "During my time there I worked some for Kovalenko, an associate of yours I believe. Anyway, once he was relieved of his business, I found myself unemployed. Thought I'd come back here. Thought there might be opportunities for a man such as myself."

"Kovalenko? Then why had I never met you before?" Hannon looked sceptical at this connection.

He folded his hands on the table pushing away the plate and leaned forward on the table. Michael smiled, the cold smile of an assassin. "That's because I was perched on a rooftop with your head in my gunsights waiting for a signal to blow your head off." Hannon's blood ran cold at the icy delivery of that statement. Michael leaned back in his chair, his demeanour rapidly changing. "Now, I'd like to be self-employed, or at least an independent contractor, not beholding to the orders of others."

Michael was convincing. Hannon's doubts were being assuaged, but there was still a twinge of concern. "Seems like you've gotten awfully chummy with the girl. How do I know you're not in this together?"

"Like I told you, I'm not political. She's a means to an end. I could have tried to develop a friendship with someone like Donnelly or one of the brothers, but, with the woman, it was easier to get close. And there are a few perks that go along with the association." Michael paused. "Believe me. I'm all about the green." Hannon' eyes narrowed hearing that statement. "The kind that lines my pockets."

Hannon liked what he saw. The man had skills, access, and an air of confidence. "I'm willing to give you a whirl, McBride." Michael inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that this meeting was headed toward a partnership rather than a bullet. "But, before we get into our own business relationship, I'll need you to do a little job for me. Call it a show of good faith." The arms dealer didn't rise in this field without being circumspect in his dealings especially with eager new disciples.

"A job?" Michael's smile faded slightly, wary of the request.

"I have a shipment coming in tonight. Down at the port. The seller will unload the cargo and get it to that location." Hannon took a slip of paper from his breast pocket and passed it along the table to Michael. The American noted the details and folded the paper before placing it in his own pocket. "Pick it up. Bring it to me. And then, we'll talk." Hannon stood up indicating that breakfast was over. Michael nodded and headed toward the exit.

It wasn't surprising that the arms dealer would propose something like this but it put another roadblock in his path. He needed to secure a crate of arms from an undisclosed seller, drive it through the streets of a city at war that was filled with British troops, and avoid the notice of any of the paramilitary groups in the area. He was going to need a little help. He was going to need Fiona.

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"So, let me get this straight, Michael. Ya have no idea who the seller might be. No idea if Hannon is the actual buyer or if he's circumventin' another's delivery. No idea who else might know about the deal. And the time and location of the exchange has been set by someone other than yourself." She looked at him with disbelief as she laid out the facts, as she understood them.

"That about covers it." Michael concurred with her assessment.

"Are ya completely daft?" Fiona was not one to shy away from risk but even she had her limits. "There's no way ya can get away clean."

"Not without help I can't." He had a devilish twinkle in his eye hoping she would rise to the challenge.

She lifted her eyes to the heavens as she contemplated the bargain he had made. "Well, then, I suppose we'd better come up with a plan that doesn't involve us in remand, or worse. Sounds like fun!" Fiona and Michael shared a conspiratorial smile, their minds linked with thoughts of mayhem.

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Michael prepped for the better part of the evening. Guns were cleaned and maps studied. Michael had a map of the area spread across the table as he looked for possible escape routes should things go awry. Fiona finally emerged from the bedroom. Her eyes were heavily lined, her hair straightened. She wore an alarmingly short dress with black boots almost to her knees. "Interesting look." Michael's focus turned momentarily toward her when she entered the room.

"Ya want me trolling the streets in the wee hours of the night, Michael, in case ya be needin' backup, do ya not?" He nodded. "This seems like the right choice."

"Going for a lady of the night look, then?" Michael thought her reasoning sound.

"Actually, I was tryin' for the clubbing look but I suppose either works. Ready?" She gathered her supplies as she prepared to leave.

Michael paused, "So, about Sunday, I was wondering what I should bring, you know, for your mam?" He understood this was important to Fiona and he wanted to make the right impression.

She pondered the question. "I suppose you could bring a cake." Michael grinned, content with her answer, and he turned to leave. "Of course, she might be thinkin' ya have doubts that she'd be servin' a proper pudding." The grin left his face. "She does enjoy a wee drop now and then. A bottle of Bushmills might do." This time the spy waited for the disclaimer. "Or she might get the idea ya think she's a bit of a lush." Michael looked askance at her suggestions. "Dunno. You decide." With a wry smile she disappeared into the night.

Michael set off for the waterfront his attention now focused on the mission, confident that in this milieu he would have the right answers. And if things went badly, well, at least he would be spared sitting through a social gathering with Fiona's family. Death or tea - he wasn't sure which one was the preferred outcome.


	11. The Escape

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Escape**_

Michael drove to a different part of the city scouring the neighbourhoods for a suitable vehicle for the task ahead. He needed something that would blend into the surroundings not drawing suspicion yet heavy enough to cart around a crate full of armaments. Then, he spotted something that just might fit the bill. A mid-sized delivery truck emblazoned with 'Dale Farm Creamery' along its side. Michael wondered if perhaps there would be yoghurt inside. It might help pass the time if he arrived early.

Soon he was safely ensconced within the driver's seat heading toward the designated location. The streets were fairly quiet at this time, more so as he left the city centre heading across the Lagan. Michael hated operations like this: walking into the unknown, alone. But he had done it more than once and still was alive. He hoped his luck held out once again.

He tucked the truck under an overpass and waited. This was often the most difficult part, the waiting. It was when your confidence began to wane, fear creeping in where it was unwanted. Michael passed the time by counting, first in Russian, then in Farsi as he tried to keep his mind engaged in some mental calisthenics. Lights approached in the distance and the spy was relieved that his idleness was about to come to an end.

Two men, sullen and darkly garbed, emerged. They opened the back of their truck ready to make the exchange. Michael did the same. Truck to truck. Neat and tidy. The job was quickly completed and the team was on their way. Michael started up the engine somewhat dismayed that the creamery truck was empty of any cargo other than a black market arms shipment. But, at least the exchange had gone smoothly.

Michael barely had traversed any ground before he noticed two pairs of headlights slip in behind him. He increased his speed slightly and they mirrored his movements. A question was raised in the spy's mind. Were these Hannon's men providing an escort or someone else intending to relieve him of the merchandise? Michael began driving erratically, speeding up, slowing down, making turns on side streets, basically driving like an idiot. It was a good way to verify that he had a tail, not just an active and slightly paranoid imagination. Despite his antics, the sedans followed his lead. Now he knew for certain there was deliberateness to their pursuit.

His memorisation of the city map was reaping a reward. He was able to navigate through the streets with ease. Still, they followed growing ever closer, ever more brazen. It was time to get a little back up of his own.

He dialled her number and the call was quickly answered. "Fi, I've got company."

"Jaysus, Michael. I told ya this was a bad idea." Fiona shouted into the phone. "Where are ya now?"

Michael peered into the darkness. "Somewhere near Harlan & Wolfe. I've got two black sedans tailing me. I keep trying to lose them but so far, no luck."

"Hannon's men?" Fiona asked.

"Can't be sure. They're playin' nice right now but I'm not sure how long that will last." Michael continued to check the rear view mirror. One of the cars began to make a move, trying to pass the slower, heavier Creamery truck. "Looks like they're trying to box me in." Michael swerved causing the sedan to retreat.

"What are ya drivin' so I don't wind up shootin' out the wrong tyres?" Fiona started up her engine.

"Dale Farm Creamery truck." Michael began driving in the centre of the road weaving left and right in an effort to stave the approaching vehicles.

"Seriously, Michael? Is this about your bizarre yoghurt obsession?" Fiona shook her head in disbelief thinking a more manoeuvrable and speedy vehicle was in order.

"Can we talk about this later?" His brogue disappeared as he concentrated on his driving rather than his cover. Michael swerved once again as another attempt was made to pass him.

"Fine. Give me 10, 15 minutes at most. Head toward Donegall Quay. Then make your way toward Northern past the Salt Works. Can ya do that? And whatever ya do, Michael, keep 'em behind ya." Fiona was already driving toward the area indicated as she formulated a plan of action.

Michael readily agreed as truck and car slightly collided. Both hands back on the wheel, he pushed the sedan slightly and speeded ahead. The brief contact did not deter his pursuers. Michael continued to swerve and dart about the road preventing the sedans from passing him. One false turn and he would be cornered. At least he had some tactical support ahead.

He assumed from her comment that Fiona planned to shoot out the tyres of those following behind. He intended to gun the engine as he neared the targeted spot so that he could give himself some breathing room. Once bullets hit the tyres, a careening car could still wind up disabling his vehicle. Michael would ensure that would not happen. He just had to stay alive long enough to reach her. So, he continued on a circuitous path through the streets of a Belfast giving her time to find a perch and save his ass.

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There were some advantages to travelling with a small arsenal in your boot, thought Fiona as she zipped along the streets of Central Belfast City. She was prepared for any type of assault. Fiona had a preliminary plan in mind when she set the rendezvous point with Michael but would work out specifics when she viewed the scene.

Two cars in pursuit were a challenge rather than a complete obstacle. She mulled several options over while navigating her way to the Salt Works. Her original plan was to cut through the perimeter fence, scale the wall to reach the roof of the building, and use it as a perch until Michael and his entourage appeared.

She was a gifted sniper, gifted enough to hit a target even going forty or more miles per hour. Shooting out the tyres could work but there were a few too many variables that could pose some serious problems. The cars might be bunched up together, putting Michael too close if the advancing car lost control. She had no doubt she could effectively disable one car with a blow to the tyres but that still left the second vehicle to eliminate. And Michael had hardly chosen the wisest of vehicles for a car chase. Next time, she would procure the transportation... and drive! She doubted those bastards would be able to keep up if she were behind the wheel. The thought made her smile.

As she neared the factory, a new plan was formulated on the fly. Several cars lined the streets. A burning barricade just might do, she thought. Not very subtle, but she often was not very subtle. She surveyed the road, selecting two cars parked along the route that could serve her purpose quite nicely. They were spaced far enough apart to create two distinct roadblocks. A flaming pair of cars, especially exploding ones, might be enough of a deterrent to stop even the most ardent pursuit. She had to hope that her lover would have sense enough to widen the gap with the sedans as much as possible once he reached the indicated point or he would be embroiled in the melee.

Fiona pulled alongside the first vehicle quickly planting a block of C-4 on its undercarriage. She repeated the action further ahead with the second. Then, she secured a vantage point a safe distance away and prepared to stagger her detonation of the pair once Michael was safely out of range. At least, that was the hope.

Now, she waited. "Come on, Michael." She voiced the words softly aloud, a hint of a prayer contained within.

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Michael had delayed all that he was able. He hoped he had given her enough time to get into place, plan her attack, and free him of these relentless pursuers. He headed toward Northern, a straight stretch of road near the waterfront where he could build as much speed as was possible given the constraints of the delivery truck.

He pressed the petrol giving him a burst of speed and headed down the straightaway. He spotted the Salt Works along the left, a small smile appeared on his face as he approached the spot she would likely be using as a perch. Temporary space between the sedans and himself accompanied his acceleration as he continued to depress the pedal. It was time to lose his tail!

He kept his focus forward, racing ahead, taking momentary glances behind him. A loud explosion diverted his attention. A parked car suddenly became airborne, raining flaming pieces of metal along the road, Michael narrowly passing by unscathed. The lead sedan was not so lucky, ploughing into the burning wreckage, forward movement no longer possible. Michael continued his forward progress, slightly unnerved by the unexpected explosions. Still, one sedan circumvented the crash more intent than ever on overcoming their prey.

Michael spotted another vehicle parked along the opposite side of the road. He wondered if perhaps another surprise was in store. After all, Fiona was more than a gifted sniper. She got her start blowing up cars all over Belfast. He should not be surprised that this was the tactical support she offered. He gunned the engine trying to get past this potential projectile. He had barely made it through before another 'boom' rocked the air. He could feel the heat of the blast through the closed windows. The sedan hot on his heels collided with the debris, sending it spiralling along the asphalt. Smoke and fire filled the area.

Fiona's car appeared from behind a low wall and drew alongside of Michael, a look of triumph on her face, a look of relief on his. Both zoomed off, anxious to vacate this scene of destruction as soon as possible. The bomber took off for home, a sense of exhilaration filling her as it always did when she inflicted damage of any sort. Michael headed off to deposit his cargo with Hannon, hoping he had not just annihilated an escort provided by his employer. Sirens could be heard approaching the conflagration. It was just a typical night in Belfast.

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It was some time before Michael returned. She had watched the clock move slowly, her unease mounting, shut out from the next portion of the operation. There could not be the slightest hint of Fiona's involvement or the future association with Hannon would disintegrate before it truly began.

So, she waited.

Finally, Fiona heard the key turn in the lock but remained stationary, recognising instantly the sound of his footsteps. She tensed slightly as she wondered what state she would find him in. The fact that he was alive was reassuring.

Michael entered the bedroom, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his cuffs. He found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading a magazine, and eating some yoghurt. He walked near, a questioning look on his face. "Yoghurt?"

"It's growin' on me." She flashed a smile as she took another bite. Michael reached for the container as he sat on the bed. He swallowed a mouthful and passed it back. "I assume the delivery went as planned. Ya don't seem to be bleedin' on my duvet." She made a brief visual inspection of her linens and the man. Then, she offered him another taste, which he readily accepted.

"No. I'd say that was the least dangerous part of my night." Michael shot her a disapproving glare.

"Ah, my roadblock. It worked, didn't it? Ya lost your tail." Fiona stared at him with wide-eyed innocence.

"Felt like I was in Beirut or Fallujah." He stopped. "You could have killed me."

She filled her spoon and placed it near Michael's lips. "I had faith in ya, Michael." He stared at her for several moments before accepting the offering. "Who knows? Maybe sometime in the future that wee trick will be useful to ya. Besides, anyone who decides to use a delivery truck as an escape vehicle..." She didn't finish the sentence, she didn't need to. Michael understood he had to accept some responsibility. "And your stalkers? Hannon's men?" She switched the topic back to the real villains in this drama.

"I don't think so. Hannon seemed surprised that I was followed." The American summarised the events at the delivery site, citing the gun dealer's pleasure that the crate in question was now in his possession, Michael oblivious to its contents. "Anyway, I seemed to have passed his test." Michael took the last bite of yoghurt and placed the now empty carton on the bedside table. "The subject of the Thompsons came up. He wants them. Wants to see if I can really procure them."

Michael Westen had done the math. He was a master at it, weighing the percentages of risk and benefit, trying to minimise the damage caused. Here, he was only putting one person at risk, with a great many benefitting from a successful outcome. Good odds. But looking into her green eyes, suddenly, the math did not seem to work out too well.

The spy squirmed under her cold stare as she assessed the situation. She had already agreed to the plan in theory, but now as it neared reality, she had reservations. What did she really know about the man before her? Could she risk her livelihood and reputation for the comfort he provided in her bed and in her heart?

Michael watched her, understanding that she was weighing the options, giving her time to reach her own decision in the matter. She regarded the man and the proposition before her. His demeanour rapidly changed before her eyes. He became more soulful, introspective. His eyes seemed full of apology as if it were a plea for forgiveness for some unknown transgression. This is when she felt the closest to him; this is when he truly touched her heart. "I'll need to be movin' them a bit before ya 'uncover' them, so to speak. I'll not want Hannon, or yourself for that matter, to have access to my other toys." Her gaze was firm and unyielding.

"Fair enough." Michael nodded, a weak smile followed.

She reached toward the bedside table grabbing a paper and pencil. She hastily scribbled the location and thrust it toward Michael before she could change her mind.

He took the slip reservedly, trying to shake off his malaise. He was a spy. This was his job. And he was damn good at it! "This is the site?"

"It will be by Tuesday night." Fiona had used the location before to stash contraband temporarily. It was not her preferred place, but it would do for this purpose. "It's a farm outside Newry. The Thompsons will be in a sealed oil drum in an outbuilding on the west side."

"Guarded?" Michael had switched gears fully embracing the mission.

Fiona sighed. "Not exactly. But it is, how shall I put it, a rather 'volatile' area. Ya'll need to take extra care." Michael's brow furrowed at her assessment. She explained, "Hannon would expect no less. Anything too easy and he would know it was a setup." Michael saw the sense in her argument but still looked concerned. "Cheer up, McBride. This thing with Hannon, it's child play compared to tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Michael searched his memory.

She drew him into her arms. "Yes, Michael, tomorrow. Tea. With my family." Then, she stopped her romantic advance, fearing he was going to provide an excuse to bow out of the scheduled engagement.

"I don't suppose there will be ice. I've always fancied my tea cold." His smile allayed her worry. He could at least give her that, a moment of loyalty before an act of betrayal.

Fiona rolled her eyes, wondering if he was having her on or if he was serious. Sometimes, it was difficult to make the distinction from his expression. "I told ya, Michael, Tea doesn't mean..." She threw up her hands, then silently stormed off, not wishing to cover old ground.

Michael tilted his head watching her go, confused once more. Surely, there was tea at something called Tea. He needed some sort of manual, maybe Living in Ireland for Dummies. He thought running the errand for Hannon was the most difficult part of his evening, but now he was not certain.

The night's events were an alarming indicator that once an operation has begun, like a storm at sea, it takes on a life of its own. Someone followed him and Fiona's tactical support nearly killed him. They were all swept up in this operation now, its currents unpredictable. He would do his best to keep them both alive, but first, he had to survive tea!

**A/N: **Thank you for your kind reviews. They do mean so much to all of us on this site and encourage us to continue. Hope you continue to enjoy the story. With thanks!


	12. The Tea

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Tea **_

She spared him having to attend the actual religious service but he was no less wary of the upcoming social event. He arrived at the address she had given him at the appointed time, a small brick house at the end of a lane, children spilling out onto the garden. Michael walked up the steps holding a box of chocolates and feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He had the same sort of pit in his stomach as he had picking up his first date when he was sixteen, a vastly different circumstance he thought to himself.

Fiona appeared at the door hardly looking like herself. Michael's eyes widened in surprise as he noted her outfit: a pink floral dress gathered at the waist, a pair of sensible pumps replacing her usual combat boots, or stilettos, depending on the task at hand, her hair a soft mass of curls. Michael caught himself staring, "You look..."

Fiona finished the sentence for him "... Like a Stepford Wife. I know. But it makes me mam happy. I disappoint her in so many other ways, it's the least I can do. Chocolates? Good choice." She opened the door wider inviting him inside. As Michael stepped cross the threshold the cacophony that had been the Glenanne gathering ceased as all eyes turned toward the newly arrived. Michael had never felt so uncomfortable in his entire life, not even when he had been captured and interrogated by the FSB. Fiona broke the silence, "This is Michael. Michael, my family. I won't trouble you with all the names as you won't remember them anyway, and you've already met Sean, Bobby, and Declan." The three men nodded in acknowledgement.

Just then, an older woman emerged from the kitchen, all others moving out of her way as she made her way toward the couple. He could see a great deal of resemblance between mother and daughter. "Michael. So glad ya were able to join us." She extended her hand.

Michael greeted her, then presented her with the chocolates. "Appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Glenanne. Not often I get the pleasure of a fine meal." Her welcoming smile put him slightly at ease.

"Not if ya have been seein' _m'inion dheas _for a wee spot of time. Cooking isn't exactly yer strong suit now, is it, _a stoirin?_" She tilted her head in the direction of her daughter. Fiona did her best to remain expressionless while internally bristling at the comment. "Call me, Norah." She accepted the chocolates. "These look delicious. I'll set them aside before the wee ones get to them, shall I? Right, then. Fiona, get the man a drink. He looks like he may faint dead away."

Norah Glenanne could see the apprehensive look in the man's eyes. He looked like a lamb stepping into a lion's den, Fiona equally skittish. So, thought the woman, my wee girl has finally fallen in love. "Well, it's back to the kitchen for me or they'll be no tea for us this day." She winked at the couple her eyes lingering over her daughter's and retreated, leaving the couple awkwardly standing in the centre of the room.

Sean brought over a tumbler filled with whiskey. "Drink up, man. This should take the edge off, eh?" Michael accepted the drink gratefully. He usually wasn't one for hard liquor, but in this setting a strong drink might be just what he needed to survive the afternoon. "She must like ya, McBride. She actually smiled." He chuckled before returning to the corner where his brothers remained.

Alone once more, Fiona apologised for her mother's leering. "Sorry about that. I should have known if I brought ya here she'd likely be already drawing up the banns to be read at church next Sunday."

"You, two, get along?" Michael thought about his own troubled relationship with his mother.

"Well enough. I'm a bit of a disappoint, I suppose. She wants me to give all up the 'nonsense' I'm involved with and be surrounded by a brood of me own." Fiona looked wistful as she spoke the words.

"Is that what you want then? A family?" Michael tensed a bit awaiting her answer.

Fiona scoffed. "Don't worry. I won't be making any unholy alliances, Michael. Not sure I'm the maternal sort. Now if someone would drop a three or four year old on me doorstep, well then, I suppose I could be quite good at it. But babies... I don't have the patience or the inclination."

Her attention was drawn to one of her sister-in-laws on the opposite side of the room. She was heavily pregnant, trying to pacify a screaming toddler by offering up a soother, while another young child grabbed the bottom of her mother's dress to use as a serviette, wiping her jam encrusted mouth. Michael followed her gaze, shuddering at the scene before him. "Good to know." Michael smiled.

Fiona led the way as the two wandered about making conversation with assorted brothers, wives, nieces, and nephews. Michael would have preferred a hasty retreat as he was completely removed from his comfort zone. Bodies filled every crevice of the house. Good-natured banter volleyed between the women manning the kitchen and the husbands trying to watch the football match on the telly. Michael briefly thought about joining them but was fearful his knowledge of the sport would fall short under scrutiny so he remained fixed to Fiona's side. Meanwhile, small children skirted along the floor, some on their bellies, some on their knees, and some racing small cars. Michael had nearly stepped on several and was now plastered against the wall afraid to move. Surely, this was what hell was like, thought the American spy.

He glanced at Fiona who seemed completely unperturbed by the surrounding chaos. He wondered if he could feign illness. He suddenly longed for his own dysfunctional family gatherings: his father passed out on the sofa, his mother chain smoking in the kitchen pretending that all was normal, his brother, Nate, cowering in his room, while he sat on pins and needles waiting for whatever was to come. Suddenly, he became nostalgic for the quiet house on Shady Lane. Perhaps it wasn't so bad after all... at least compared to this!

Fiona could sense her partner's unease despite his forced smile. Just then a gaggle of pubescent nieces scuttled by giggling and making various audible comments about _Aintin _Fi's fella. "Well, they seem to like ya well enough."

"I prefer not to go to jail." Michael avoided all eye contact with the young women.

He turned toward Fiona who wrapped her arms around his waist. ""I suppose ya'll just have to make do with me then." Her smile drew him back to the reason that he was here in the first place. Her.

Eventually, Michael began to relax slightly. There was so much noise and movement throughout the small house that he felt he could fade into the background. He and Fiona found a quiet-ish corner once the obligatory visiting had been accomplished. Michael spotted a photograph loving placed in the centre of nearby table. "Is that your da, then?" She nodded as a wave of sadness passed over her.

The spy saw her reaction and was intending to switch to a more comfortable topic but Fiona began to explain. "We lost him last year. Sometimes, I forget that he's really gone." She stopped, a sad smile appearing. "He spent so much time in and out of remand, sometimes I forget he's not there."

"Donnelly said you two were close." Michael sensed that Fiona had more to say.

"I loved him and more that that I admired him. He was brave and noble. Never a care about himself but always what was for the greater good of Ireland. He could be a pig headed fool at times, but he never wavered, always did what he felt was right." She stared at her glass for a few moments. "Suppose I wish I could be a bit more like him." Their conversation ended abruptly as both of their thoughts centred on their respective fathers, Michael's memories not quite as fond.

Norah watched the couple surreptitiously as she bustled about. She could not remember the last time her Fiona had brought someone to a family gathering. The _cailin _guarded her heart well, using her work as a shield. She realised long ago that her only living daughter was driven to forge her own path in life, her passionate nature driving her actions. It wasn't that Norah disapproved of her choices as much as the fact that her _inion_ denied herself what would ultimately make her the happiest - love.

She studied the man. Handsome, confident, intelligent, and skilled if the rumours that swirled about were even partly true. Her wee one was clearly smitten, it was written all over her face. But Norah saw something else, something that tugged at her heart. The man, Michael, reminded her a bit of her Padraig, God rest his soul. He seemed to be a man of principle, a man ruled by honour. He would love her, protect her, but in the end he would break her heart. There would always be a higher calling that would prevent her from being his first priority.

Norah Glenanne would have changed very little about her life. She loved her husband with her whole heart, as he did her, but the Troubles, like an unwanted mistress, slowly led him away. She did not want that for Fiona, she wanted to spare her the heartache of sharing a man with a cause. The older woman wished she was able to share her concerns but knew her daughter would quickly discount her advice and likely storm off in a huff, or more likely, be drawn further into the man's arms. So, she would keep silent and pray that history did not repeat itself. Besides, she had nearly thirty people to feed! Fiona's troubled love life would need to be sorted another day. Tea was ready.

The matriarch beckoned her family to gather and the adults swiftly moved to their places. There was a usual hierarchy to seating in the crowded house. Fiona led Michael to her usual chair at the far end of the table but tradition was thrown aside as Norah Glenanne made her intentions known. "Michael, please sit next to me here. Not too often we have a visitor. Fiona, too." The couple looked uncomfortable with the request but it was not one that could easily be refused. They exchanged looks. Michael shaking his head slightly wanting her to make some excuse. Fiona shrugged her shoulders, unable to think of an acceptable reason to remain where they were. Michael regretted having survived Fiona's fiery roadblock as they both moved toward the head of the table.

The brother who usually sat by his mother's side switched places, whispering to Fiona as he passed by. "Poor bastard_. _He's done for, he is." A smile on his face despite the banishment. Fiona jabbed him with an elbow as she passed.

Michael and Fiona settled in their places. "Right, that's better, isn't it? Now we can have a nice long chat." Michael would have rather been water boarded but smiled nonetheless. "Eamonn, would ya say 'Grace' for us in honour of the day?"

Heads bowed, sign of the cross, the blessing spoken ... all rituals unfamiliar to the American spy. He was a quick study and followed the crowd but Fiona immediately spotted the slight hesitation, the actions requiring thought rather than being instinctual. The prayer completed, the family burst into immediate conversation as platters heaping with food were passed round the table. Fiona took the opportunity to whisper into her lover's ear, "So, I suppose ya don't say 'Grace' in Kilkenny either." Michael had no chance to respond before another began her own questioning.

Norah Glenanne turned to the man at her side. "So, Michael, do ya live in Belfast now? Fiona tells me yer from the south. Kilkenny, is it?"

"Tis. Um, we'll see. I like it here." Michael tried to concentrate on his meal, hoping a mouth full of food would help him avoid questioning.

But Norah was not dissuaded from finding out more. "Do ya have a job?"

"I'm between jobs right now - a bit like Fiona." Michael answered then took another large bite. Fiona shot a disapproving glance at her mother. The interrogation was disrupted as a glass was toppled, liquid seeping into the tablecloth. Norah jumped up to see to the disarray and Michael was released from questioning, an audible sigh of relief escaping his lips as Fiona shot him a death glare. Sean and Declan raised their glasses in a toast indicating the spill was not accidental but meant kindly. The brothers felt the man's discomfort and remembered their own experiences sitting at the in-law's table for the first time. By the time the mess was sorted, the conversation was lively among those gathered inhibiting further queries. Michael was able to finish the meal in peace.

The meal completed, the family dispersed. The brothers gathered and invited Michael over for a wee drop, their initial dislike of the man easing. The American appreciated the gesture and reluctantly joined them, hoping there were not some other rituals expected of which he had no knowledge. Fiona stayed by his side.

"Shouldn't ya be helpin' with the washin' up, little sister?" Sean taunted. "Ya know, women's work." He winked letting her know the comment was meant in jest. Usually, she would have made a biting retort but today she just rolled her eyes. Her brothers' kindness at dinner was noted and appreciated. They often tormented her but today they showed their solidarity. Besides, she was intent on avoiding her mother at the moment, fearing she would undergo a more rigorous interrogation about the man she had brought to tea.

Shirtsleeves were rolled up, whiskey flowed freely, a camaraderie of sorts emerged as favourite weapons and explosives were discussed, and a family welcomed another into their fold.

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"It's done then." A lone voice pierced the silence as all eyes were fixed on the television screen above the bar. Usually, football matches were the focus of attention, but today a news bulletin pushed all else aside.

A fleet of politicians from both sides of the border made the announcement of the historic agreement reached the day before on Good Friday. Some ink on paper was now to radically change life, as it had been known for decades.

_"__We, the participants in the multi-party negotiations, believe that the agreement we have negotiated offers a truly historic opportunity for a new beginning.__The tragedies of the past have left a deep and profoundly regrettable legacy of suffering. We must never forget those who have died or been injured, and their families. But we can best honour them through a fresh start, in which we firmly dedicate ourselves to the achievement of reconciliation, tolerance, and mutual trust, and to the protection and vindication of the human rights of all.__We are committed to partnership, equality and mutual respect as the basis of relationships within Northern Ireland, between North and South, and between these islands.__We reaffirm our total and absolute commitment to exclusively democratic and peaceful means of resolving differences on political issues, and our opposition to any use or threat of force by others for any political purpose, whether in regard to this agreement or otherwise.__"_

The words struck Fiona as her thoughts immediately turned to Claire. She was one of those tragedies, a family never whole after her loss. She thought about her Da and all that he endured so that others could taste freedom. Fiona had not gotten initially involved with the Provos over a united Ireland. That was her father's dream, not hers. But what she sought was justice, some might call it revenge. She wanted those that murdered her sister to be accountable. If she couldn't identify the individuals responsible, then she would take on the British Army in their stead. She had caused a great deal of mayhem over the years hoping it would somehow assuage her grief, but the hollow feeling remained. A sweep of a pen and now all was to be forgiven.

Michael watched Fiona's face trying to read her reaction to the news. He saw no relief but only confusion tinged with pain. The room was silent - a highly unusual occurrence for any pub! Each patron was lost in thought processing the statutes of the Agreement. Thirty years of violence had the potential to end but was the gain enough? This was a room filled with many who had to grapple with that question, those who had placed their lives on the line for the cause, those who had lost their youth and often much more. Still, the framers of the Agreement spoke. The issue of weapons finally was broached.

_"__Participants recall__...__ "that the resolution of the decommissioning issue is an indispensable part of the process of negotiation"__...__ Independent International Commission on Decommissioning and the Governments in developing schemes which can represent a workable basis for achieving the decommissioning of illegally-held arms in the possession of paramilitary groups.__All participants accordingly reaffirm their commitment to the total disarmament of all paramilitary organisations. They also confirm their intention to continue to work constructively and in good faith with the Independent Commission, and to use any influence they may have, to achieve the decommissioning of all paramilitary arms within two years following endorsement in referendums North and South of the agreement and in the context of the implementation of the overall settlement.__.."_

The news report ceased after all the Strands of the Agreement were read. Politicians smiled for the press, shook hands with one another, and posed for photographs capturing the historic moment for posterity. Those gathered in The Falls, or The Shankill for that matter, were more cautious, more pensive. There would be time for deliberation, time for debate. Referendums would be held on both sides of the border in late May and all would be able to vote on this document, the people given a voice for their destiny.

"Shite! The Brits are gonna haf' to pry me gun from me cold, dead hands, dey will. I'll not be givin' up wot's mine. Sum of ya are too fresh to remember da days when dey held da guns and da power." The old timer took a sip of his Guinness before continuing. "Dis deal nowt much different den da Anglo-Irish Treaty in '21. The IRA gunned Collins down, dey did. Hope Gerry Adams tinks 'bout dat while 'e rallies da troops, eh?" He chuckled at that last thought.

There was heated discussion throughout the pub, voices raised, passions revealed on both sides, little consensus forming. Fiona did not enter the fray of the discussion but Michael saw her anger rising, unsure of where she fell on the issue. Michael, the spy, took it all in, assessing the mood trying to determine what was bravado and what might provoke action. This was the type of information the CIA desired and would likely pass along to their British allies to garner future favours.

Three men entered the pub and stood near the doorway. Michael recognised them as associates of Fiona's. They motioned for her to draw near. Fiona glanced at Michael before joining the trio. A hushed and hurried conversation occurred as Michael attempted to discern their message. He watched his lover's face as news was delivered. Fiona was already deeply agitated but whatever news the three brought filled her with rage. She stormed out without a word, without a goodbye. Michael quickly followed somewhat alarmed by her reaction.

"Fi! Fi! Fiona!" He called after her as she headed down the street flanked by her companions. His voice finally broke through her anger and she paused momentarily as Michael rushed to her side.

"Go on with ya. I'll be along." She looked at her watch. "Meet youse in about an hour. Same place?" Fiona sent her associates off without her as she turned toward her man.

Michael tried to calm her. "Leaving me with the bill again?" He smiled but was met with a cold stare.

"I've got to go." Fiona provided no further details. "And before ya ask, no, ya can't help. Not this time." She knew the man would offer his services but now with the Agreement dangling before the populace, the future of the IRA in limbo, it was time to close ranks, keep to the inner circle. Still, she knew he would not take her refusal for assistance without some explanation, some reason for him to keep his distance. "We found the bastards that killed Jimmy, that planned to kill the lot of us. We intend to make them pay." Fiona turned away, her plan, whatever it was, was now set in motion.

**In honour of the one year anniversary of the last new episode of Burn Notice to air on September 12, 2013, there will be an additional chapter of Stone of the Heart published on Friday- Chapter 13 to celebrate the 13th episode of 2013.**


	13. The Story

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Story**_

Michael watched her for quite some time before deciding to follow her. He didn't keep his presence hidden but simply trailed after her. Fiona realised that he was following but continued moving forward. She was headed home initially; a change of clothes was the first order of business. The spy was surprised by her lack of subterfuge. Surely, she was aware that she was being tailed but made no evasive manoeuvres.

It soon became evident where she was headed. Once Fiona entered the house, she left the door open, believing it pointless to pretend she did not notice his approach. The spy soon entered. "You know, you really should close the door. No telling who might be behind you." She rolled her eyes at his comment but made no retort. Michael realised conversation was pointless when she was in this frame of mind. An argument was the only outcome of any confrontation, regardless of intent. So, he remained silent as she went through her mental preparations.

Fiona proceeded to ready herself for the events ahead. Despite her skills, the PIRA was male dominated and the hierarchy was difficult to alter. She surmised her role tonight would likely be more lookout than hunter so she would dress accordingly. A woman dressed in battle fatigues may draw unnecessary notice on the streets of Belfast. Fiona would select an outfit to blend in. She glanced out the window, rain had begun to fall softly adding a slight chill to the April air then turned her attention toward the wardrobe, searching for the right look.

Michael slipped quietly into the bedroom, concern written all over his face, but no words of reproach passed his lips. The fire inside her subsided somewhat as she noted his unspoken support for whatever she intended. She knew that her fiery outbursts flummoxed the man. Although outwardly he appeared to enjoy the mayhem she thrived upon, she recognised that internally he preferred a more analytical method of problem solving. The only time he really let down his defences was when they were in bed. Unfortunately, she had to refrain from that particular activity at the moment or she could compromise the upcoming mission as time was of the essence.

He settled into the nearby armchair watching as she chose a black tank and slacks, slipping them on swiftly, his eyes barely catching a glimpse of her body. Her smile was coquettish allowing him to believe more would be revealed when she returned. Michael observed the change in her and felt it was now safe for him to draw near.

Fiona stood by the window, grabbing a Kevlar vest to complete her ensemble. She waved it toward Michael who seemed pleased that she was taking this precaution. The Irishwoman placed it over her head, Michael quickly moved behind her intending to assist her with the straps. She had her back to him as she lifted her tresses twisting them into a chignon giving him room to work. Her rage had subsided and now she was able to focus on him. _"Why ya so quiet?"_ She broke the silence with her question.

_"I don't like the idea of people shootin' at you."_ The spy was not overly concerned about his own safety but protecting those he cared about, those he loved, was deeply engrained in his psyche. He tightened her vest, placing his hope in its encasement of her heart.

She was touched by his concern and slightly amused as she had already demonstrated her talents and skills in the field._ "Yer worried."_

_"You're not?"_ It was a normal emotion before entering the unknown. No matter how much training one had, there were always unexpected situations, the chance of collateral damage. He didn't dwell on these eventualities but the fact that they existed always gave him pause.

Fiona rested on the window seat watching the raindrops splatter against the panes. _"One thing you'll learn about me, Michael McBride. I don't worry."_ She turned toward Michael as she continued. _"Not since I was a little girl."_ The memories came unbidden as Michael slowly caressed her cheek. Michael wanted to ask her what she meant but he did not get the opportunity. "Now stop yer worryin'. I've got to go." She reached for her coat and the American helped her put it on, making sure the vest beneath was well hidden. As a parting gesture, he rechecked the small pistol she was to carry in her pocket. Once he was reassured, he placed it in her hands, holding them longer than necessary. The IRA guerrilla reached for his face, cradling it in her hand. She looked deeply into his eyes. He could see calmness there, not a shred of nervousness. Fiona placed a soft kiss on his lips.

"Is that a good-bye then?" Michael knew it was time for her to leave. He could draw out this parting no longer if she was to be prompt for her rendezvous.

"No." Her hand dropped to her side as she began to pull away. "It's more of a just in case." Sad smiles were exchanged before Fiona turned away, not even a glance backward as she quickly left the flat leaving Michael alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael Westen found himself in an unusual situation. He was the one left behind! He thought about following her, keeping to the shadows, provide backup if needed. But there was something about her demeanour this time, something he could not quite put his finger on, that told him this operation was different and his help would not be appreciated, in fact, might even result in more harm. So, he stayed behind and waited.

He knew he should make contact with the Agency, make a report as required. But he held off once again. He kept them abreast of developments regarding Hannon but he was reluctant to divulge too much as it related to the IRA, as it related to Fiona. Michael did not know what the woman was currently involved in but he intended to keep it from Langley if possible.

The passage of time was painstakingly slow. The clock barely moved. This is what he had put others through every time he left for a mission. It was one of the many reasons he stayed away from Miami and his family. His mother was a bit neurotic and this constant threat of danger would surely push her over the edge. Likely, she would phone him fifteen times an hour and those calls would eventually get him killed. It made operational sense to stay away and keep them in the dark about his daily activities. After spending the evening in this matter, waiting for news, waiting for her to return, he felt confident that he made the right decision in regards to his family.

Not knowing how an operation was unfolding was far worse than anything he experienced in the field. He checked his mobile again, making sure it was not on silent, making sure he would hear it if he was summoned. He stared at the device willing it to ring but silence was his only answer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fiona knew that she was playing with fire, knew that in the next few hours she would cross a line. Her inner conscience dictated her actions, overriding any rules she was sworn to abide. She had made her decision and would accept whatever consequences might come her way. A hint of regret tugged at her soul. Michael. Would he understand her duplicity? She banished these thoughts as she approached her accomplices. It was too late for second thoughts.

Only a few hours before, the culprits were identified and their whereabouts determined. Those damn surveillance cameras that were often the bane of their existence had finally provided some helpful Intel. Now, a nondescript black van carried the team through the nearly moonless night. The plan reviewed and finalised during the drive.

Six members comprised the extraction team, each with a specific function to perform, each with a need to put an end to these attacks, each believing that they were better equipped to end this vigilantism than the RUC. None accepted the irony that they too were acting outside the constraints of the law.

The van slowed to a crawl allowing its occupants to exit quickly and quietly. Fiona was the first to put her skills to use. She moved to the wall at the back of the house, instantly assessing the structure, and determining how much explosive to use. The Irishwoman began to apply the det cord, fastening it with duct tape, intending to make a new doorway where only flat wall existed. The others acted as sentries until their talents were required. Satisfied with her work, Fiona stepped back encouraging the others to do the same. With a press of a button, a nearly soundless explosion blasted the wall allowing easy access into the house.

Four men rapidly entered the makeshift doorway hoping their unexpected entrance would find their prey disoriented and unarmed. Fiona and her old pal, Ruairi, guarded the streets, their automatic weapons ready to be discharged should the need arise. Shouts of warning and a string of expletives could be heard from the inhabitants as they were unceremoniously ripped from their beds. But within moments, the cornered men were subdued, bashed on the skull and fitted with head bags.

The van, it lights doused, reappeared. Ruairi opened the back, the others dragging their captives and shoving the unconscious men inside, jumping in quickly beside them. Fiona was relegated to the passenger seat, her weapon aimed at the street while they made their escape. The van picked up speed as it left the area as rapidly as possible. All were alert for the possibility of discovery, the possibility of retaliation, but so far, it appeared they were getting away clean.

Once returned to The Falls, the van slowed once more, this time coming to a complete stop, allowing their female associate to alight. Fiona's job was done, the others preferring to handle the subsequent interrogation and likely execution without the presence of a woman. She usually battled against this type of bias, believing she was usually more ruthless than many of her male associates. But tonight, she accepted her role; glad to be divorced from the rest of the proceedings. The van zoomed away to an undisclosed location while Fiona headed for home.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The key turned in the lock rousing Michael who had drifted off during his vigil. He jumped up just as Fiona entered. The spy made a brief inspection of his returned lover who seemed to be intact and unbloodied, a reassuring smile on her face. He resisted the urge to rush to her side, envelope her in his arms, and relish the warmth of her body, relieved that she was safe. Michael understood the need for space after a mission, time to decompress, and readjust to normalcy. So he simply watched as she removed her coat, undid her vest, tossing both on a nearby divan, and then sinking into the armchair that he recently vacated.

Michael silently moved toward the kitchen. Her eyes followed him. He returned with two bottles, holding one in each hand. Finally, the silence was broken. "Wine or whiskey?" Her choice would indicate the toll the operation had taken.

"I'll start with the whiskey."

"That bad?" Michael's brow was furrowed, hoping details would be forthcoming.

Fiona shook her head. "Everything went smoothly." She reached for the glass that Michael just poured and took a large sip. Her words indicated that all was well, but they belied what he observed. "I told ya before I don't worry, not since I was a wee one." She stared into space, not meeting his gaze, as she began to explain. _"When I was younger my father wanted to protect his family, and our beliefs, no matter what. I watched him get beaten and shot at. But if he was afraid he never showed it. He always said, 'there's a difference between livin' and livin' free.' Of course, livin' with honour only put us in more danger."_

She paused remembering the fear of those knocks on the door in the middle of the night as soldiers crowded into the parlour dragging her Da out for 'questioning', sometimes for days, sometimes for months. There were other times where the streets exploded with gunfire and smoke.

Her voice remained steady as she continued her story. _"My father, he came up with a plan to warn us any trouble was brewin'. He'd say, 'Fiona. Time to be brave little angel.' I suppose it was a code of sorts. What it really meant was get down on the floor, close yer eyes, and start pray in' till it's over." _Fiona took another swig of her whiskey. "If he was there, I felt safe. Bit foolish I suppose. He couldn't keep bullets away much as he'd like. But somehow it made a difference. He was a man of honour. A man who lived by principles of freedom and justice."

Michael saw that her glass was nearly empty and refilled it without a word. "This Agreement. It's not what he wanted. We aren't free of the Crown or her bloody soldiers. They want us to give up our guns but they'll still have them." Michael watched her face as she grappled with some internal struggle. "I've got no stomach for politics, government has always been an oppressive force here not a source of comfort. I don't give a damn what flag flies over all of us but I don't trust them – any of them. Even PIRA's got its own agenda now: power sharing, I think they call it." She swallowed the entire glass before she revealed what had her so bothered. "The leadership refused to go after those boys tonight. Peace at all costs, they said. But we went anyway. I couldn't let Jimmy's death go unavenged. I had to be sure those bastards wouldn't continue their strikes."

The American looked concerned, "Will they come after you?" The IRA had a chain of command. Directives were to be adhered to; dissension was met with consequences.

"Not likely. The leadership will want to deny any involvement. The UVF will probably be glad they are rid of those that broke ranks." Her gaze finally turned toward Michael. "PIRA's turning mainstream... Who would have thought? Of course, this happened before. Me Da was originally Official IRA; did I tell ya that before? Then, appeasement became too central to the organisation. The Provos broke away in '69 when all hell broke loose."

"What are you saying, Fi?" Michael drew closer.

Fiona looked pensive. "I need to decide where I stand should the Agreement be ratified. Stay with the Provos, disarm, let the new Police Service keep the people safe or join up with the Real IRA until we're all livin' free, until no outside power controls the people... or me for that matter. I don't like others tellin' me what to do."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." He reached her cheek stroking it with his thumb, his smile accompanying the sarcasm.

She stood up, placing the tumbler on the nearby table. "I think I'm ready for wine now." A weight had been lifted from her, at least temporarily. She could talk to Michael so easily. He listened without judgement. Voicing her concerns freed her from the worry descending upon her, the feeling she had long abandoned but seemed to be seeping back into her life.

Michael poured them both a glass. His thoughts now jumbled. It was bad enough that she was associated with the Provos, the saving grace there being the push toward peace and disarmament. Growing up in the heat of The Troubles in Belfast, it was easy to see how someone like Fiona would follow that path, especially after her younger sister was cut down by a British soldier. Perhaps even Tom Card would understand his association with a 'former' volunteer, but the RIRA seemed more erratic, more prone to random violence. Michael knew the CIA would never accept his relationship with a terrorist who shut the door on the possibility of peace and escalate a war that was winding down.

Things were getting more complicated each day. How could he convince her to stay the course without giving himself away? Maybe, it was time for truth. "Fi..." his voice nearly a whisper.

She turned, pressing her body against his, pulling at his clothes with urgency; the prior violence of the evening remembered, the need for physical release overwhelming. Michael was soon drawn in, his need as great as her own. Maybe now was not the time for full disclosure. He was meeting with Hannon tomorrow and he required the help of his asset. Truth could wait a little longer.


	14. The Tommyguns

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Tommyguns**_

"Newry, is it? Hannon's eyes were filled with suspicion as Michael informed him of the location of the Thompsons. The American wished he had heard back from his contact about the area and its current climate. Hackles seemed to be raised whenever the area was mentioned and Michael was unclear exactly why. Hannon continued to stare, his desire for the weapons overriding caution. "This sounds like it has the markings of a set up, McBride. You'll be joining us on this little trip to South Armagh, will you?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Michael exuded confidence even if it wasn't truly felt.

"And just how did you come by this location? Odd sort of pillow talk."

Michael had an answer ready. "Overheard her on her mobile trying to set up a sale. Ever since the Agreement, she's been in a bit of a bother wonderin' about her stores. Anxious to get rid of them before 'disarmament' becomes compulsory drivin' the prices down. Wants to be ahead of the curve, it seems."

"I have a deal with her myself in a few days." Hannon had hammered out the details in The Black Sand Pub on the night the couple had their first dance. Neither had been completely satisfied with the negotiations, but neither had backed away either. Michael was surprised she had not mentioned the upcoming transaction. He assumed these were PIRA stockpiles. Michael noticed that Fiona was very careful to keep her professional and personal arms deals quite separate. The sale to Hannon must be an official Provo sale. He hoped that this would not muddy his mission.

"You want to do this or not, Hannon." Michael used impatience as a bargaining chip. "Dunno how long she plans to keep them there. I'd not want to waste the knowledge. If you're not interested, I'll find another who is."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, McBride." The arms dealer was apparently still willing to pursue to deal. "Give me twenty four hours to set things in motion. Then, we'll have to hope the boyos in South Armagh are feeling friendly, eh?" Hannon's laugh was strained but the deal was set. Michael needed a bit more Intel to know exactly what awaited him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael sat back in his chair assimilating all that he just gleaned from the Internet search. The area Fiona was planning to stash the Thompsons was a nationalist stronghold, the IRA having a death grip on the area. It was renown for smuggling and Michael guessed outsiders would be less than welcome. Did she want the sale to go through or was she trying to get Hannon and associates, including himself for this operation, killed?

The door opened. Fiona sauntered in carrying a large sack, moving toward him, puzzled by his strange expression. She peered over his shoulder to see what might be the cause of his malaise. "Ah, doin' a bit of research I see." Fiona began to put away the groceries she purchased, irritated with the man before her. "Honestly, Michael, I sometimes think ya've lived under a rock the past twenty years. How can ya live in Ireland and be so little interested in what's happenin' here, her history?"

"If you recall, Fiona, I've spent the better part of my adulthood moving about. Not much talk of The Troubles in Bosnia or Chechnya. They've enough troubles of their own." Fiona recognised the truth of that statement. Michael chided himself for his lack of preparation for this posting in Ireland. He was so sure it was a waste of his time that he did minimal research, a fact he was regretting more each day. Ordinarily, it may not have been a problem but as he was now in a 'relationship', his deficits in this area were noted.

Both were on guard, a tenseness between them that was not there before. Truth be told, he was more annoyed with himself than with her. This was a situation he created. She was just doing business as usual. He wiped his hand over his face, his frustration mounting. "Is there a way to get in and out clean?" Michael concentrated on the mission before him.

"They're not gonna shoot ya, Michael." Fiona visibly relaxed. "Hannon knows the deal. Without me there, or another familiar face, they'll demand a cut for crossing their territory if yer spotted. As long as ya are not some Brit or other, ya'll be fine."

Great, thought Michael, not the most reassuring of comments considering his status. She turned away and began rummaging through a secretary in the corner of the room. Once she located the object of her search, she scribbled something on the back, and then returned to where he was standing. "Here." She handed him a small photograph of herself.

Michael accepted the photo unsure exactly why he was being presented with this gift at this moment. "Thanks?" It's not that he didn't appreciate the gesture but the timing seemed somewhat inappropriate.

She shook her head. The man was infuriating! "Turn it over, _eejit._" He complied. He read the words silently, then aloud. "Micheal, lee gra go dee o. Fiona. You spelled my name wrong, by the way. What is this?"

"Jaysus, impossible, ya are. It's Irish, ya fool. It's yer get out of jail free card if ya get nicked by the Provos or the Real down in Newry." Her green eyes flashed anger.

Michael still looked confused. "What's it mean?" He hated to disclose his ignorance, his lack of knowledge of the language.

Fiona shrugged, "I suppose if it was in Russian or Farsi, ya could read it just fine." She snatched the picture away and read the words. _"__Mícheál, le grá go deo. Fiona." _Then she translated for the man with the blank stare. "Michael. With love forever. Fiona." She handed him back the photo somewhat tentatively as the word 'love' permeated the air, making them both hesitant with one another. She brushed away the sentiment and became operational once more. "Any trouble, hand 'em that. They'll call to see if its real and I can save yer arse once again."

Michael nodded now seeing the totality of her plan. He deflected the conversion once again, moving further away from the 'word' finally spoken, "Hannon says you have a sale pending." The topic less personal, putting both more at ease.

"Somethin' I set up before we met. Headed to Dublin for a few days to sort it out. Ya can join me there if ya want. That's where he'll be takin' my Thompsons, I suppose. Get them ready to ship out." Michael looked unsure but Fiona pointed out, "Hannon knows we're together. He won't be surprised if ya say we're meetin'. Then, ya won't have to head back to Belfast on your own."

Michael assessed his options. Going to Dublin had merit. He could follow the Thompsons there, possibly learn more about how Hannon planned to transport them, and perhaps even glean information about their final destination and purchaser. He could also show Hannon he still had Fiona's trust. Essentially, he could do what he was trained for: being a spy. He could also send out a report to Card through the channels set up in Dublin. It seemed like a good plan.

Finally, he nodded his head in agreement. "Dublin it is. But before this thing goes any further, we need a distress signal in place. Something that alerts the other that things are falling apart." Fiona recognised the sense of that precaution. "How about 'honey'? If one of us calls the other 'honey' it'll be the signal to abort?"

"Honey?" Fiona looked at him questioningly, then began to chuckle. "Sounds like something out of an American film. Seriously, Michael I think yer gettin' caught up in this cloak and dagger business."

Michael scrambled to find a reasonable explanation for his choice, cursing himself for picking that particular endearment. It was the first one that popped into his head likely because his mother frequently used it. "That's what makes it perfect. It isn't something you would usually hear, is it?"

Fiona agreed. It was a relatively uncommon endearment here but not so strange as to attract unwarranted attention. "Well, 'honey', off ya go. Between spyin' on Hannon, avoidin' the Armagh boys, and dealin' with me if things go badly, ya just might get to use yer distress signal."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An armed convoy rattled along the narrow roads of the Armagh countryside. Hannon's men accepted his presence begrudgingly but were not anxious to make friends. Michael himself was on edge although appeared nonplussed about the entire adventure. He had been stripped of his mobile. They allowed him to keep his gun in case trouble lie ahead but limited the clips he could carry. They had the location. They could procure the weapons on their own. Michael was their insurance but was easily dispensable, a fact not lost on the spy.

There was little traffic. They purposefully avoided major highways, the roads increasingly narrowed the further they moved away from Belfast. The closer they drew to the Newry region, the more heated the air grew within the confines of the vehicle. Guns were kept close; eyes scanned the surroundings with heightened vigilance.

Michael thought about the photo tucked in his wallet, his 'get out of jail free card' should the situation get out of hand. It had been years since he had carried something so personal. The life of a spy dictated remaining unattached, nothing to tie you to another. Spies lived in fear of a loved one being used as leverage, so many found it was simply easier not to love, eliminate that risk. This was the code he tended to live by, but now he carried a link to another, a link that supposedly would lead to salvation rather than cause harm should the need arise. There was something satisfying about its presence, being connected to another openly.

He remembered the sound of her voice as she read the Irish words, translating them for him, his ignorance once again noted. These little lapses were mounting up. Hopefully, she was not keeping a tally! "With love forever." Were those words simply a safety net or did she mean them? She could not meet his eyes, her voice was strained. It was obvious that Fiona used the word sparingly, her awkwardness nearly matching his own. Michael wracked his brain trying to remember if he had ever spoken the words to another human being. Nothing came to mind, not even in conjunction with his 'ex'-fiancée, Samantha.

Michael could no longer deny he was getting too attached to the woman. He revisited the idea of revealing his true identity, come clean about everything. A part of him believed that she would understand, that she would accept him despite the unusual circumstances. But another part, the consummate professional that he was, was certain that conversation would end with only one of them still alive.

He would complete the mission as outlined by Tom Card. Once it was done and Hannon was dead or in cuffs, perhaps he would tell her the truth. But for now, she was an asset, a foreign national associated with an organisation that he was charged with investigating. As much as a part of him wished he were really 'Michael McBride', that man did not exist, and eventually he would have to leave, return to his real life, his real identity. 'Love' had no role in their future, a pang of remorse accompanying the thought.

Hannon's voice broke his reverie. "Nearly there." They passed through the outskirts of Newry, heading southwest into the countryside. Michael checked his weapon once more, his attention drawn back to his surroundings. The roads were empty at this time, too early even for the local farmers. Fiona had described the potential threat. There would be a roadblock of some sort, armed men hidden nearby. Once stopped, they would be approached, ordered out, questioned briefly. Fiona was somewhat reassuring. The Armagh boys would be focused on eliminating opposition forces, not commercial enterprises.

She insisted that Hannon would likely be recognised. Either he would be given clear passage or subject to a 'voluntary toll' for passing through the area. The potential for trouble came from unfamiliarity. Michael would be an unknown entity. He had to hope Hannon would vouch for him if such a circumstance would arise. The photo was his trump card should the arms dealer decide to sell him out. She had one more trick up here sleeve. The location she originally gave was not completely accurate. Michael was the only one who now possessed that information. If Hannon eliminated his new 'partner', he would never retrieve the merchandise. It was nearly time for Michael to divulge that tidbit.

"Hannon. Once you reach the location, drive another 9.5 kilometres, and turn left onto the dirt road."

"What the hell are you talking about, McBride?" Hannon was in no mood for games.

"Glenanne changed it up at the last minute. Lucky for us, she thought I was still in the shower when she made the call." That was the truth of it. She had informed him of the change immediately before he left for this operation. It was exactly the type of move he would have made himself given the situation.

"And you're just getting around to telling me?" Annoyance was clear in his voice and expression.

"Didn't think it mattered since we were headed in the same direction?" Michael tried to shrug off the question.

"Anything else you forgot to mention?" Hannon did not like surprises.

"Just that there's a note I left for Fiona in case I would 'disappear'. Wanted her to know the circumstances that may have led to that eventuality." It wasn't much but it was a wee bit of insurance against betrayal.

"Don't trust me, eh?" The arms dealer narrowed his eyes and he scrutinised the newcomer.

"Over the years, I've learned the only person I trust is myself. Guess that's why I'm still breathing. Can't be too careful these days, can you?" Fiona was not the only operative in play that knew how to keep everyone honest.

"And once your wee secret is out, McBride, do you imagine Fiona will rush in to avenge you after screwing her?" The gunrunner scoffed at his companion's naïveté.

"Don't imagine so. But knowing you were ready to steal from her, well, I wouldn't want to be you, or for that matter anyone who knows you." Michael looked at the men around him making sure his message was delivered. Several looked uncomfortable. Fiona Glenanne had a reputation for revenge and ruthlessness. Each of the men had heard enough stories of those who crossed her; some tales were second hand as the offender was no longer breathing to tell his version of events. "Eliminating me - more trouble than it's worth. Trust me."

"No one's shooting you, McBride, unless, of course, you don't stop running your mouth. Just direct us to the bloody site so we can get the hell out of here before company arrives." Hannon wanted to focus on the task at hand, complete the job as efficiently as possible, and head toward Dublin and a relaxing pint.

Michael focused on the road ahead, directing the driver to the secondary location. All were now on alert. The turnoff was soon found. The four wheel drive vehicles easily traversing the slightly muddied road. The occupants, including the American, were all uneasy with this new arrangement. The one lane road was narrow, an escape route non-existent. Once they entered the path, they were committed to forward progress despite the risks. A sliver of moon was their only light illuminating small patches of the surrounding countryside. This was rolling grazing land, sheep more plentiful than trees. The only solace was an advancing squad would be detected long before an attack could commence.

Night goggles were passed around and provided a clear view despite the darkness. At least dealing with a successful arms dealer allowed the group to have the best toys: an armoured vehicle, multiple types of weapons, and a trained militia. Michael spotted the lane, which would take them further into the countryside, closer to the Thompsons. They made the turn, the road barely wide enough for the vehicle. There was no turning back. He was currently inside Hannon's operation. Either he would procure information that would lead to the gunrunner's downfall or wind up in an unmarked grave. He thought once more about the photo he carried. He had more to live for than ever before. He checked his weapon once more as the trucks moved deeper into the unknown.


	15. The Delivery

**Stone of the Heart**

_**Chapter 15**_

_**The Delivery**_

Finally, the outbuilding that Fiona described was spotted, a small stone storage structure on the edge of a cow pasture. They pulled up alongside the building, the armed sentries exiting first, manning positions around the vehicles. Hannon and one other immediately proceeded toward the door and prepared to enter without delay. "Wait!" Michael shouted in alarm causing both to freeze. He brushed passed them, reaching the door first.

He suddenly remembered that Fiona often placed another layer of 'security' on her possessions. "Knowing Fiona, she likely booby-trapped the entry." The spy opened the door a crack and spotted a similar device to the one she had in her flat in Belfast. He cursed her slightly under his breath, thinking that she could have least warned him about this little surprise. Luckily, he was beginning to understand how her mind worked - at least tactically. As for the personal stuff - he was still trying to sort that out. Michael slowly disarmed the contraption allowing for safe passage. Hannon looked relieved that he had not insisted to be the first through the door.

There were three containers placed along the far wall, slightly covered with a tarp. They approached cautiously in case more surprises were in store but found nothing to raise alarm. The arms dealer, now increasingly wary, sent one of his minions in alone with the task of opening the drums and inspecting the contents. When nothing went 'boom', Hannon and Michael entered the space. Two of the drums contained what appeared to be fertiliser, the third a small stockpile of Thompson Machine guns that on initial inspection seemed to date from the time of partition. A tidy profit could be made from collectors once auctioned!

The weapons were carefully removed, wrapped in cloth, and placed within a locker brought for the specific purpose. The oil drum once emptied of its contents was refilled with odd bits of material to give it weight and stability. The containers were resealed, the tarp replaced, and the thieves were ready to slink off into the night. A nod of his head and a small smile let Michael know his services were appreciated. Hannon had an asset with a link to the IRA stockpile, at least temporarily.

No lights appeared. No forces descended upon the team. A quick study of a topographical map led them to realise they were but a few kilometres from the border. They would even be able to avoid the checkpoint if they cut across a few fallow fields. The merchandise secured, the convoy moved out. They moved through the area unimpeded, their journey swift. A few stone walls and some barbed wire slowed their progress but were easily eliminated if they stood between potential capture and freedom.

The sky began to lighten as a paved road appeared in the distance. Sighs of relief and a few strained smiles let Michael know that the worst of the journey was behind him. Hannon turned to his new 'partner'. "Welcome to County Louth, McBride, part of the Republic."

The second vehicle pulled alongside as the arms dealer gave the occupants their next orders. The convoy split apart, the rear car making a U-turn on the A1 and heading back toward Belfast. The lead car would continue on to Dublin and it's environs.

Hannon compartmentalised much of his operation. His foot soldiers needed a limited amount of information. Their job was to point and shoot. Cash awaited them upon their return to the northern city so none felt the need to dawdle. He watched as they drove away to insure no double-dealing was about to occur.

Five remained in the lead car: Hannon, the driver, two armed guards, and Michael. It would take very little to kill Hannon here and now. The American knew he could easily get three shots off but that still left one gunman to turn on him. Not great odds. He also knew that eliminating Hannon was only part of the problem. As despicable as the gunrunner was, the CIA was after a bigger fish, likely whoever took over Kovalenko's operation once he was incarcerated. Shooting Hannon might be satisfying but would eliminate their best conduit to the mass distributor. It would also put an end to his current assignment in Ireland requiring an immediate return to D.C. It would mean leaving her. Michael eased his finger off the trigger.

The drive continued in silence. Tensions had dissipated for the most part, a cursory watch for the Gardaí, as they made their way toward Dublin. The truck slowed as it turned off the main motorway. Michael stealthily placed his finger once again on the trigger, fearing that perhaps his services were no longer required. It would be far easier to dispose of an unwanted body in the countryside. His movements did not go unnoticed.

Hannon chuckled, "Just a vehicle change, McBride. Don't want a repeat of your last job for me. Seems my distributer is getting a bit twitchy. Sent his own guys to 'oversee' my operation. He won't be doing that again. Lost a coupla good men that night. If I wanted you dead, I would have stuffed your lifeless body into that oil drum back there. Let Glennane find you there instead of her precious guns. Which loss do you think would make her weep, man?" He turned toward Michael awaiting his answer but the spy just stared.

"She finds out you betrayed her, stole from her, she'll do worse to you than simply kill you. This fella I knew, Kavanagh, he intercepted one of her shipments once..." He paused, Michael hoping he would continue, wanting to know the fate that could await him if his deception was discovered. "It's amazing what that woman can do with a Taser and a car battery." The car came to a stop and Hannon and his men exited immediately. Michael sat a moment longer as he pondered the gun dealers' words.

They arrived at a garage where a van awaited. "Clontarf Medical Supplies." Michael read aloud the signage on the new vehicle.

"Give us a hand, McBride." One of Hannon's men called out. Together the men lifted the locker out of the truck and transferred it to the new means of transportation. The truck was pulled into the now empty garage, stored away until the next cache of weapons was ready for pickup or delivery. The transfer complete, the team was on their way once more. Michael had a new piece of the puzzle, a lead that would need to be followed.

The concentration of buildings increased the closer they drew to the city. Michael was optimistic that they were headed to Hannon's storage site. He tried not to appear too interested in his surroundings while attempting to glean as much information as possible. The van turned into the Clontarf DART, Dublin Area Rapid Transit, station and parked in the loading zone. "This is your stop, McBride."

Michael looked perplexed. "Don't you need my help to unload the thing?" He wanted to see where the package was to be delivered, how it was to be exported. He needed more time, more Intel.

"We'll manage." Clearly, Hannon was going to take him no further. "My crew will handle the rest. I'll be in touch." Michael had been dismissed, his mobile returned. If he lingered any longer, it would raise suspicion. He nodded, left the vehicle, and watched it pull away, thinking how he wished he had a tracker as the van disappeared from view.

Michael looked around him, clueless as to where he actually was. He dialled her number, she picked up immediately. "Finally!" Fiona breathed a sigh of relief hearing the man's voice. "Where are ya?"

The American read the sign above him, "Clontarf DART station."

"Clontarf?" Fiona was somewhat surprised at the location assuming Hannon would head directly to the city centre or the port itself. "Hop on the train and head toward Greystones. Take the Blackrock stop and I'll meet you at the station." She was ready to end the call but added, "And Michael."

"Yeah, Fi."

"I'm glad you're alive." The call ended and the spy headed toward the ticket machine, anxious to be reunited, anxious to plan their next move.

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After about a 20-minute journey, Michael arrived at the Blackrock station. It was little more than a platform, a small building at the entrance. He spotted her immediately, leaning against her car, the wind blowing her hair in all directions. A smile greeted him as he approached. "Ya made it. I was wonderin' if ya would get lost. Wasn't sure if they had trains in Kilkenny, if ya would know how to buy yerself a ticket." Michael's only response was to glare at her before entering the car.

He looked briefly around him as she began to drive. Blackrock appeared to be a small seaside town just south of the city centre. "Where are we headed?"

"Home." Fiona glanced his way noting his confused expression but he asked nothing further. They drove a short way, soon arriving at a small detached bungalow overlooking the sea. Fiona led the way, Michael following close behind.

This place was quite different than the flat in Belfast. Whereas Fiona's place up north was dark, muted colours, older furniture, few personal touches other than some paintings and stained glass features, this house was all windows and light taking full advantage of the landscape. The rooms were filled with shades of cream, grey, and blue, capturing the feel of the sea beyond. Fiona watched as he took in his surroundings. There were photographs, knickknacks, and flowers, making the home feel inviting and lived in.

Michael moved toward the photos that were displayed. He recognised many of the faces, having met most of them at tea. There was one, however, that he was unable to identify. He picked it up for further inspection. A young girl, blonde and carefree, frolicking in the waves. Claire. He noticed Fiona's pained expression and gently set it down without comment.

Fiona swallowed hard and found her voice. "Tea - or something stronger?"

"Tea's fine, if you have it." Michael tried to get his bearings in these new surroundings, discovering a new dimension to the woman before him.

"Michael, this is Ireland, one of the largest consumers of tea in the bloody world. It's like askin' if we have air." She scowled, thinking he had spent far too much time away from his homeland during his adult years. She turned to put the kettle on, leaving him to continue his inspection.

The bungalow was small. It looked to have a front parlour, a dining area leading to the kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. Fiona returned carrying a tea tray, setting it down on a low table. While the tea seeped, he moved over to an étagère in the corner of the room, his attention drawn to an unexpected sight. Four snow globes lined the main shelf. Michael picked one up, facing her with a questioning look. It contained a scene of Parliament and the Big Ben clock tower, something he would never expect her to own much less be so prominently displayed. "Snow globes?" He smiled waiting for the story accompanying the object.

Fiona's expression indicated she was not amused by his attitude, which seemed a bit judgemental about their presence. She moved closer, taking the snow globe from him, replacing it on the shelf. "My father made a trip to London once. He delivered a 'package' there. Picked that up for me at the airport as he was leavin'. He had a successful trip. He did a job. Got out clean - not that I knew that at the time. I recently decided I rather liked the idea so I've started to collect them."

She turned away, ready to play mother and pour the tea. Michael perused the others: Dublin, Belfast, and Tripoli. Fiona had a myriad of other 'jobs' but most were in Ireland in towns without many tourists or gift shops. Tripoli seemed out of place. He faced her with a questioning glance.

"Training camp." Michael turned away wincing slightly at the discovery realising she was likely at some terrorist training centre. These disclosures reminded him of just how impossible their relationship truly was no matter how he justified it. "I hope to add more to my collection, perhaps Paris one day. I've always wanted to go there." She handed him the cup, settled on the sofa, and initiated the debrief. "So, I assume ya relieved me of my Tommyguns, did ya not?"

Michael took a sip, wishing that he had an ice cube to add to the tea. He nodded before adding, a frown clearly visible. "Luckily, I thought to check if the door to that shed was wired or I'd be in pieces right now."

Fiona smiled sweetly. "I gave ya more credit than divin' in blind. Ya know how I like to make things go 'boom'!" He was learning her ways. Surely, he didn't need to be told each detail!

"Hannon played nice. We had no unwanted company. Don't suppose you had anything to do with that?" Michael had been surprised they ran into no opposition after all that he had heard and read about the area.

"An associate of mine might have made a call. Biscuit?" She held a small plate, offering him a sweet, but not providing any details of who might have been called or what might have been said.

Michael shot her look before continuing with the debrief. "He packed up the guns, added ballast to the empty container, and four wheeled it until we crossed the border. Then, he sent the support staff packing." Fiona, a gunrunner herself, nodded. So far, it seemed to be standard operating procedure. "About 15 minutes before the city, we pulled into a garage for a vehicle exchange. Transferred the lot to a service van - ' Clontarf Medical Supplies.' " Michael stopped awaiting her reaction.

"A lead?" Fiona inquired; a hopeful look crossed her face.

"Possibly. More likely a shell company." Michael was not sure if this new information was valuable or not. No false encouragement was forthcoming.

"A dead end then." Fiona tried to ascertain exactly where Michael was headed.

"Not necessarily." Fiona wasn't following, so Michael outlined one possible option. "You are still meeting him this afternoon?"

She nodded. "We're exchanging trucks near Howth." Fiona disliked working with the arms dealer for her personal sales, but the PIRA leadership wanted to continue the relationship. As a foreign national he had access and connections with many sources throughout the world. When one source became difficult or dried up completely, Hannon could tap into another. Disarmament was the wave of the future, especially now that the Agreement was a very real possibility. The IRA wanted to reduce its older stockpile of weapons but amass ammunition for their newer weapons. Fiona wasn't thrilled with the deal that she negotiated but neither was Hannon. Both sides, neither getting the quantity requested, begrudgingly accepted a compromise.

"What's the exchange site like?" Michael needed all the available information to flesh out his idea.

Fiona located a local street map of the area spreading it out on the dining room table. The Irishwoman explained the current plan. "We'll meet here. Switch trucks. Be on our way."

"Guards?" The spy didn't believe Hannon would come alone.

She nodded. "We'll both have a driver and two armed associates." Fiona had made several exchanges over the years with Hannon. There were rarely complications, both wanting the merchandise without attracting attention. Others above them counted on the deal being lucrative and bloodless. Both gunrunners realised their expendability if they were not able to conduct seamless transactions.

"If there was, say to be a third party involved, I assume the best place to be positioned would be here." The spy pointed to an area on the map. Two roads connected at Sutton, one road going north toward Baldoyle, the other heading west toward Clontarf.

"It would be but it's fairly residential. You would have to give him a wide berth. Not sure he could be easily tailed from there without being made." Fiona pointed out the pitfalls of the idea.

Michael grinned. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be fun, now would it?"

Fiona's eyes lit up at the thought. It was a daring plan with a high-risk quotient - just the type of adrenaline rush she relished. The man had secrets, secrets she was trying to sort out, but for now she had found a kindred spirit that shared her love of living life on the edge. It appeared that Fiona Glenanne had her fill of kissing frogs. Now, she just had to try to keep this one alive.

**A/N: So grateful to you all for your continued support and feedback. It is truly welcomed and appreciated. I'll be posting another chapter on Friday, as way of thanks. _Go raibh maith agaibh ! _**


	16. The Tail

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Tail**_

A few hours later, Fiona and her companions were in position. The merchandise arrived on schedule in Howth Harbour. A fishing boat pulled up to the dock where the IRA contingent waited. The crew had various affiliations with the group but all were committed to the cause and the chance of additional cash the taxman couldn't reach. The Celtic Tiger may be rising but it had not yet trickled down to the docks.

They exchanged pleasantries with the boat owner and took delivery of their 'catch'. Fiona made a brief inspection of the containers confirming all that was as it should be. She told her nearest associate to make the necessary call: merchandise received, cash to be paid. The captain was also on his mobile speaking to his wife confirming the payment had been made. As the financial arrangements were completed satisfactorily, the crew, likely armed should things go awry, prepared to shift ownership of the crates.

The cargo consisting of several large containers was then loaded on the truck without delay and they parted company. Fiona watched the fishing boat quickly depart the marina surmising that another delivery was likely the cause. Business generally picked up around the waterfront at this time of year.

Fiona checked her watch, pleased that everything remained on schedule. The team boarded the truck and made their way to the rendezvous point to await Hannon's arrival.

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Michael had better vantage points in his career as he readied to tail a target, but he also had far worse. The area was heavily residential, but a few businesses and even a parking lot provided some cover. He spent much of the time parked in the lot under the cover of a stand of trees just beginning to bud. He planned to move into a more accessible spot, one easier to leave surreptitiously once Hannon was spotted, after he confirmed the gun dealer was en route. He would have to pass this corner to meet with Fiona. The spy slumped in his seat, binoculars in hand, surveying the occupants of every truck that passed his way.

Surveillance was a necessary evil in the life of a spy. The American had spent countless hours sitting in a car or on a desert rooftop gathering Intel that may or may not prove useful to a mission. It was boring and often difficult to keep focused but one momentary lapse and the target could be lost and those precious hours would be wasted.

In this case, Michael's time was well spent. The target appeared, Michael noting the tag, the make and model of the vehicle, and even a brief glimpse of the driver. He knew the vehicle Fiona intended to exchange for this one. Now, he could potentially keep tabs on both. He pulled out of the lot securing a position along the street facing the correct position and waited for Hannon to reappear.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hannon and his entourage arrived right on time. Both he and Fiona stepped out of the vehicles and walked toward each other as their support team looked on, alert for any signs of mischief. "Fiona, darlin', a pleasure as always." The gun dealer fawned slightly, enjoying the fact that she was ignorant of his recent duplicity, enjoying the fact that her haughtiness would soon be replaced by dismay once she discovered her current lover had her sold her out. Hannon hoped to worm himself into the good graces of the IRA leadership and eliminate her as a go-between and increase his profit margin considerably.

For her part, she pretended the gun dealer did not make her skin crawl, knowing Michael was counting on her continued business relationship with the man. It was the only reason she didn't shoot him on the spot when he made a point of adding traditional air kisses to their meeting. "Let's get on with it, shall we?" Fiona tried to be pleasant but did not intend to linger more than necessary.

Keys were exchanged as both squads exited the vehicles. Fiona and Hannon each made a visual inspection of the cargo, verifying the contents delivered as promised. The IRA operatives moved toward Hannon's van filled with much needed ammunition, the others soon taking over the truck carrying the weapons.

It was done. The transfer took only minutes to complete and both vehicles were about to depart. Hannon's team was quick to leave. Fiona wished that she had someway to contact Michael to let him know that the arms dealer was on his way. She just had to trust that Michael's surveillance skills were as exceptional as most of his other talents. She had done all that she was able. She waited another five minutes before beginning their own journey, hoping that gave Hannon the breathing room he would require to make his way safely back to his lair without fear of discovery. It was now up to Michael.

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Michael kept on eye on his watch. He and Fiona had worked out a likely timeline for the exchange to occur. When the approximate time arrived, the spy kept his eyes peeled on the road. Right on schedule, the truck came into view. Apparently, all had gone smoothly - so far.

Michael slowly pulled away from the curb allowing several vehicles to come between his and the truck. He was able to easily keep Hannon in sight without be immediately behind him. The traffic moved steadily at this time of day. Hannon's car veered toward the right, toward Baldoyle. Michael followed, a bit surprised at the direction since he assumed the guns would be headed immediately toward the port.

Then, disaster struck. The barriers at the railway crossing up ahead began their descent and Hannon gunned his engine, passing the barriers in the nick of time. Michael was not so lucky. Two cars back, he was completely cut off, watching with despair as he lost the target, an opportunity for much needed Intel lost to a commuter train. Michael slammed the steering wheel, screaming in frustration.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fiona had barely left the parking lot before she got Michael's call. She caught the annoyance in his voice. "Honey, I lost the address. Have no idea where I'm going." Michael realised she was in the middle of her own delivery and a cryptic message was the best he could do to update her on the status of the mission.

"That's unfortunate. No way ya can sort out the directions, then?" Fiona needed to know if the operation was salvageable.

"No." Michael left no room for optimism. If he had access to a satellite or had a fleet of assets in play along the possible routes, his chances of success would increase exponentially. But in this case, a lone spy tailing a target solo, his only asset setting the trap but unable to join in the chase, the odds had been stacked against them from the start.

The IRA operative sighed. "We'll just have to pay him a visit another time." She checked her watch. "I should be finished here in about an hour. Meet you at home, shall I?" Fiona could do little at the moment. Her associates surrounded her so she was unable to speak freely and her cargo still needed to be secured. A few mumbled words of agreement ended the call. Fiona closed her mobile and set it aside, hoping that was the only setback of the night.

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Fiona's job finished without further issues. She arrived home earlier than she anticipated, surprising her partner. She found him in the kitchen; several empty cups littered the counter, as he poured another into a small pitcher. He gave her an uncomfortable smile as she entered, like a boy who had been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "You're early!"

"Things went very smoothly." She walked toward him and peeked into the pitcher. Chunks of ice filled half of the container surrounded by recently brewed tea. She made no further comment but stared at the man, curious about his next move.

Michael had little choice but to continue. He poured the last two cups into the pitcher and stirred and then he was ready to pour some into a tumbler. "Would you like some?"

"Definitely not." Fiona grimaced at the thought. Michael took a sip of the semi-icy beverage, immediately raising his spirits.

"Well, at least one of us had a successful day." Michael brooded over the misadventure. "I was hoping we could do a little investigating tomorrow. Maybe see if we can discover anything about Clontarf Medical Supplies."

Fiona poured herself a glass of wine. "That's like searching for a needle in a haystack, Michael. Anyway, I got a call. I need to go back to Belfast in the morning."

"Problem?" His mind momentarily taken off his own failure.

She grew pensive, staring at the contents of her glass, and ruminated about the information she had just received. "They found the informant, the one that's been leaking info to the UVF." The spy remained silent as she continued. "Just a low level grunt that's been with us for a coupla years at least. He seemed like a decent sort. Apparently, he was a plant. Possibly dealing with the RUC, maybe even the Brits." She had a faraway look in her eyes. "Is there anything worse than a tout?"

The American realised the question was rhetorical. He would not have been able to answer truthfully if one had been required. He spent most of his career in the same vein. He was a spy; someone trained to covertly amass information, to report back to his superiors. Sometimes, he acted on his discoveries. Sometimes, he sold or traded it according to the dictates of the Agency. Sometimes, he did nothing letting events unfold naturally, occasionally with dire consequences for those involved.

Of course, Michael justified most of his actions over the years. They were wrapped in the flag. Michael's patriotism, his love of country, his quest to protect those who were unable to defend themselves, provided the backdrop for most of his actions. The world was often a dangerous place. There needed to be people like him, taking risks, willing to put everything on the line for the greater good, so that others, families, soldiers, and the like could sleep safely at night, blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked all about them.

"What will happen to him?" Michael wasn't sure if she would answer.

"Depends, I suppose, on exactly who he was working for." She took a large gulp. "If it turns out he was just feeding those wankers on the fringe, the ones that did the bombing, he'll just get a quick bullet to the head."

Michael scowled. "And if he was working for someone else?"

"Well, if he was workin' for the Crown, or someone associated with the government, things could get rather messy." There was no tolerance for working with the oppressors, those who inflicted harm upon the Irish people; those that shot teenage girls simply out for a day of shopping. Collaborators were the lowest forms of life deserving no mercy.

She saw that Michael wanted details but she had already revealed more than she should. She rolled her eyes. "At least he's not a woman. He'll be spared further indignities." Fiona said no more about the topic but Michael could readily fill in the blanks. He had been a soldier and he was well aware of the darker sides of war. "Anyway, It will be long over before I get back. I just need to be there for more of a strategy session. See where we go from here, see if there are others working against us. Find a way to root them out."

The mood in the bungalow had darkened considerably. Fiona noted her partner's odd expression believing he was sulking a bit after the episode with Hannon had not gone according to plan. She shrugged off what awaited her in Belfast and moved toward Michael. She set down her glass and slipped her arms around his waist. His face softened as she made her approach. "I think we both need a night out after the day's events. Perhaps a bite to eat, maybe a stop at the pub after?"

Michael Westen didn't want a night out. He wanted time to think, time to sort out the events of the day. Fiona's words about informants and their fates tugged at his soul. He willingly accepted danger but he had placed her in a precarious situation as well, a situation that she was unaware even existed, a situation that he created. His stomach clenched at the thought. Larry Sizemore's words popped into his head, "_Some people live. Some people die, kid." _He needed to erase that thought from his mind!

The Irishwoman watched his face fall. She recognised the need for solitude. She grabbed a strand of her hair and inhaled its scent. "I smell like gun oil." She placed the lock before his nose for confirmation but Michael just look confused. "Usually, a scent I rather like but not the best 'perfume' for town. Think I'm going to pop into the bath. Have a nice long soak." Her fingers ran up and down his arms as she spoke. The light in his eyes began to return. "Ya're welcome to join me after ya have your fill if that swill you're drinkin'." Her eyes shifted to his tumbler of cold tea.

Michael grinned. "I'll be there in a minute." He watched her as she began shedding various articles of clothing and headed toward the bath. Once alone, he struggled to find a way to complete the mission and keep them both alive. He wasn't sure it was possible to do both.

"Michael!" Her voice brought his thoughts to the present as she beckoned for him to join her. He put the spy side of him away for the night, the man now anxious for a bath and whatever else awaited him in the next room.

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Dinner proved not to be as bad as he feared. Fiona dominated the conversation, keeping the topics light, suggesting possible venues for a weekend getaway, something she felt they both desperately needed. Michael stayed focused and made appropriate responses but mostly he just watched her. It was rare that she was this relaxed in public. It wasn't simply the wine but had more to do with the surroundings, with Dublin itself. Belfast was filled with so much sorrow for her and her family. He wondered why they all didn't move south; perhaps they would if the border restrictions were loosened as outlined in the Agreement.

Michael would have preferred returning home immediately after dinner but Fiona insisted a short stop at the pub was a necessary evil. She would make an appearance, pick up the local chatter, and pass along some messages. There was a promise of brevity. She was as eager as he to continue their evening alone.

The pub was bustling when they entered. It was nearly closing time so many popped in before heading home for the night. Fiona conducted her business swiftly and the couple once again concentrated on each other. He reached for her hand, stroking it tenderly with his thumb, his gaze intent and loving. The two were clearly a couple; there was no mistaking their affection and comfort with one another.

Johnny Behan was a Dubliner by birth. His parents emigrated to the United States when he was in primary school, so he had a foot in both worlds. After graduating from Princeton, he was swept up by the CIA and soon assigned to Ireland where he remained to this day. He was deeply ingrained in the community and the Dublin faction of the IRA which had become more political than activist during The Troubles. His information had proven invaluable over the years and he remained in deep cover willingly.

He was informed about the current CIA operation and its lead agent, Michael Westen. And there he was, in the flesh, romancing Glenanne, that Belfast bitch. He had very little regard for those up north who were always trying to stir up trouble. Behan knew all about the duplicitous nature of a covert op, how forging relationships came with the territory. But there was nothing false in that look Westen gave the woman. Trouble was brewing, he could feel it. Tomorrow, he would contact his handler. Perhaps, it was nothing. Perhaps, Michael Westen was one helluva actor. Let Langley sort it out. He finished his pint, a last glance at the pair, and he headed out the door.


	17. The Discovery

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Discovery**_

A chalk line in an improbable place cut through him like a saber, its message clear and unwanted. He had been summoned. He pulled up his collar trying to keep the wet away as a chill formed in his heart, a chill not caused by the weather. He would need to go, at least temporarily. The signal and its subsequent meeting details had been worked out in Langley before he ever set foot in this place. He chided himself as he recalled how he hoped he would get pulled, the operation deemed worthless, and he could be reassigned to a place with 'real' problems. What a fool he had been!

Another lie would need to be told, another story concocted. He would need to peer into those green pools and betray her once again.

"Ya're late." Fiona was putting the finishing touches on a meal she had just prepared for the two of them. Her cooking skills, at least in the kitchen, were limited. She could make napalm easier than a cake but she did have a few staple items in her repertoire that were rather palatable. A poached salmon was on tonight's menu along with some potatoes and sautéed carrots. She glanced in his direction as she sprinkled some chopped dill on the fish and immediately noticed his strained expression.

She approached him slowly, reaching for his face with her hand, seeing the pain in his eyes. "What's happened?"

"It's my mother. Just got word she's taking a turn." He could barely meet her eyes.

"Is it serious?" Fiona's brow creased as she posed the question.

Michael cleared his throat preparing to lace his deception with a thread of truth. "She's always been a bit of a hypochondriac. It may be nothing but I ought go to her." Michael's thoughts turned to his actual mother, Madeline. He had not been home in years, a visit long overdue. He sent money regularly but it was his presence that she wanted, a gift he withheld from her. Thinking about her added another layer of guilt to this situation but the right touch of emotion. "Think I'll head off first thing in the morning. Get an early start." She nodded slightly, unsure of what to say.

Dinner was a sombre affair. Michael was clearly preoccupied; he barely made eye contact through most of the meal. They ate in silence, Fiona drinking more wine than usual. Michael did not have much of an appetite, his stomach clenched with worry. Would he return here after the meeting? Were these their last moments together, strained and awkward, after so much joy? This is not how he would want it to end, not want these to be his last memories of her.

There it was again - that faraway look in his eyes, a sadness in the depths of him that she couldn't quite reach. She saw two distinct sides of the man the longer they were together. The public face of Michael McBride that was openly affectionate, quick with a joke, and the other side when they were alone. Outside, he was fun, easy to be with. Here, he was more serious, somewhat brooding. He looked at her as if he always had more to say but lacked the words but those eyes, those eyes, spoke volumes. This was the part of him that touched her soul, the part of him that stole her heart.

That night he made love as if he were a drowning man taking in his last breaths. He wanted his fill of her... just in case... but soon realised it would never be enough. She felt his unvoiced need and met him with the same intensity. Afterward, as he stroked her cheek, he wanted to utter those three little words, words he had never voiced to anyone, not even his intended. But he held back fearing if he did not return to her his declaration would seem false, another untruth thrown at her to keep her close.

Fiona felt his unspoken despair, wondering if this all had to do with his ailing mother or was it something more. She wanted to broach the subject but knew what the result would be. He would shrug aside his malaise, plaster that false smile on his lips, and tell her all was fine. His reassurance would only convince her that her instincts were spot on. So, she pretended to sleep, listening to the rise and fall of each breath, her love for him all consuming. Morning came all too quickly and he was gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her solitude. She recognised the voice immediately, her brother Sean, his voice curt and hurried. "Big powwow at Stormont today. Lots from London makin' the trip. Pickin' up the regulars left and right for 'questionin'. Should be at your place within the hour." It was commonplace for suspected volunteers to be detained during high profile meetings where they could be watched and their potential as a threat eliminated. "Best be takin' a trip." Then, the call ended.

Fiona sprung to action, dressing quickly, throwing a few essentials in a bag, getting on the road without delay. A shopping excursion to Dublin was much preferred over a holding cell in Armagh, facing questions about the recent informant who had 'disappeared' or any other of her exploits. Michael was away for a few days anyway, a bit of self-indulgence would suit her well. She would need to take a circuitous route to Dublin, as the border checkpoint would likely be heavily scrutinised if Sean's information was correct. There was little time to lose. She set off ready for a few days removed from the troubles of Belfast.

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Michael had no trouble navigating himself to the designated meeting point. St. Stephen's Green was in the city centre, a huge expanse of park with ample benches for lolling away the hours. The area was filled with families, tourists, and often, suited businessmen, lunching or grabbing a few rays of sunshine on a day like today. Michael wandered along the pathways making his way to the predetermined spot, wondering whom his point of contact would be. As he made the turn, he stopped short, surprised at the sight before him. It wasn't some unknown entity waiting for him. It was Tom Card himself, the man who trained him, the man that he respected the most in the world. He sat on a park bench, sipping his coffee, pretending to soak up the rare Dublin sunshine. His protégée settled at the opposite end of the bench, opening The Irish Times, pretending to read. They sat this way for several moments both scanning the perimeter, making sure neither had been followed to the site.

Michael was the first to speak, "Must be important to call a meet. What's going on?"

"What's going on?" Tom chuckled. "That's what I'm here to find out. Luckily, I was already in the neighbourhood." Michael looked at him questioningly. "London. But made the trip to knock some sense into you. Seems my protégée is thinking with the wrong head these days! Good chance you're gonna blow this whole operation." Michael feigned ignorance planting a puzzled expression on his face so Card continued, "I'm talking about Fiona Glenanne. Ring a bell?"

"My asset. I told you she was giving us info about the gun shipments, about Hannon's operation..." Michael couldn't meet Card's gaze as he interrupted.

"I know what she is supposed to be doing for you, for us, but it seems like you found a few other uses for her talents." Michael was ready to deny what Card was implying but the older man's expression told him the argument was pointless.

Michael's voice turned stony, his jaw tightened. "I did what I had to do Card. I recruited an asset - like I was trained to do, using whatever tactics would get us the result needed."

Card knew the man well. He had poured over Westen's psychological evals over the years. The man would do whatever it took to succeed. But there was something else there this time, something deeper, something he had not observed before in this particular recruit. All these clues along with Behan's report seemed to indicate that his protégé was getting too personally involved. That trademark Westen emotional distance had disappeared despite his protestations. Tom's voice softened slightly. "Look, Michael, I know what it's like. Hell, I was in the field for eighteen years. If things are getting too complicated here..."

"The only complication is that I was summoned to this meeting possibly compromising everything I've done. You were the one who sent me here. Now, let me finish the job - my way." The spy glared at his mentor, the ring of truth of his mentor's words seeping into his soul, churning up the confusion already prominent in his mind.

The CIA Training Officer put aside his fatherly affection for the young man and delivered an unequivocal message. "Understand this, Michael, I don't care if you do a nasty jig with every _cailin_ on the Emerald Isle here. But with that one it stops now. I am not having one of our top field agents sleeping with a foreign arms dealer with ties to the IRA that he met while under a cover ID." Card's tone was firm. There was no room for negotiation about this issue. "Got it?"

Michael knew he was right. He nodded. Before Card left the park, he noted, "Take a break. Go to Amsterdam for the weekend. Sow your wild oats there, for God's sake. Then, come back here and get your head," knocking on Michael's skull, "back into the game." With that, he was gone.

Michael sat for a long while on the bench that day mulling over Card's words. He wondered how Card got his information. Apparently, he was not alone on this operation. Of course, the spy knew that his mentor was right. He knew that he should stay away, find another asset. He also knew that he wouldn't.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dublin felt so far removed from the grittiness of Belfast. It was easy to see why the Irish government sometimes forgot or ignored the plight of those up north who wanted to be united with their brethren. The Republic wanted to leave the 'bad old days' behind and join modern Europe enticing overseas businesses to the shores, offering tax incentives and bucolic living. Sometimes, she wanted nothing more than to settle here full time, leave Belfast and it's unhappy memories in the past, but the city of her birth kept drawing her back.

The day was unfolding quite nicely. A bright day, shops beckoning her name, and she even got a call from Hannon. They had set up another exchange for a few days hence. Michael would be pleased. They could set up another tail, a location that would avoid railway crossings, and would follow the rat back to his nest. She hoped Michael's mother would soon be on the mend so they could take advantage of this opportunity.

There was nothing quite like a day of shopping on Grafton Street to lift her spirits. Having a penchant for shoes, she splurged on a pair of heels that she found on clearance at Brown Thomas. She decided to rest awhile on the Green, perhaps then popping into The Shelbourne for tea after she soaked up some sunshine. She headed toward the lake hoping to watch the swans glide across the water. And then she saw him!

At first, Fiona caught just a glimpse of his profile, thinking her mind was simply playing tricks on her. She continued walking, slipping her sunglasses in place for a longer inspection. Michael McBride was not tending his ailing mother as he claimed but was sitting on a bench in Dublin reading a newspaper looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. She seethed and moved to a better location for continued observation.

Then, she noticed the other on the bench. This was no random conversation; it had all the markings of a covert meet. By the look of the other, his haircut, his shoes, he was not Irish. Likely, a Brit, possibly a Yank. The bastard, McBride, was a tout! He had used her and played her for a fool. She could feel tears begin to form, her heart wounded, but she brushed them away, replacing her hurt with a growing anger. Fiona Glenanne wished she had shot him or used that C-4 when they first met. She would make the man regret he ever asked her to dance.

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_Covert operative is one of the most stressful jobs there is. __Like soldiers, ER __doctors, and astronauts, spies have to schedule extended downtime for decompression. __Carry that stress too long, and it's easy to start missing details__. _Michael's mind was a muddle. Card had travelled all this way to reprimand him, his points valid and operationally wise. He knew that he was playing with fire getting romantically involved with an asset but emotion had overridden all sense of logic. The spy usually had time between encounters to rest and refocus, but in this case, he was for all practical purposes living with his asset, never truly able to let down his guard. The toll was mounting and he was not sure how much longer he could continue. He never noticed that she was tailing him, so great was his distraction with Card's unexpected arrival.

Fiona knew the city far better than he did. She could give him a wide berth, use parallel alleyways, and keep to the shadows. Ordinarily, he would have sensed the surveillance, but not today. His mind was on the complicated web he had spun. He fell in love with an asset. A woman who believed him to be someone else entirely. A woman he would eventually be forced to leave. Card's visit was a stark reminder that this game he was playing could not go on indefinitely. He arrived at the flat that had been set aside for his use in Dublin, paid for by Uncle Sam. He slowly mounted the steps overcome by fatigue. A quick nap was in his future before he foraged for some yoghurt. He would head back to Belfast in the morning, back to her, and try to maintain this charade a little longer.

Fiona watched from the street until lights appeared as he entered the flat. Now at least she knew where the bastard lived. She would need to pick up a few supplies in order to set her plan in motion. It shouldn't take her long, then she would return, stake out this place, and prepare a Fiona Glenanne-type surprise for his return. A smile crossed her face as she plotted her revenge.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Pubs he could easily find but blueberry yoghurt was a more difficult quest. He prowled the streets eventually finding a Centra stocked with the specific flavour. He bought several containers before returning to the empty flat and the bed that seemed too large, missing the warmth of her body. He needed to refocus, put aside these distracting thoughts. This is how operatives die in the field, he thought. He needed to 'get his head back in the game' as Card had emphatically pointed out. He was determined to do just that as he unlocked the door to the flat and opened the door. He froze at the sight that welcomed him home.


	18. The Reveal: Part 1

**Stone of the Heart **

_**The Reveal: Part 1**_

Fiona Glenanne stood in the centre of the room, her stance wide, both hands gripped around a nasty looking weapon. There was no doubt about her intention.

"Move very slowly toward the chair there." She pointed to a straight-backed wooded chair she removed from the kitchen and placed strategically where she wanted only moments before. "One false move and I won't hesitate to pull the trigger." Her eyes were hard, her voice icy. Michael nodded, slowly releasing his package to the floor, then keeping his hands raised so that she could see them. "Gun, too." Michael reached into his waistband, retrieved his weapon, and placed it on the floor.

"Put them on." She indicated the zip ties near the chair. Michael knew the drill. He zip tied his ankles first, then his wrists. "Now sit." He settled back slowly into the chair as a slight click could be heard. He closed his eyes for a moment realising he was trapped. "Ah, I see ya recognised the sound. I rigged a dead man's switch into the seat there. If ya get up afore our wee chat is done, yer goin' to make an awful mess of the wallpaper. Doubt whoever is footin' the tariff will be gettin' their security deposit back."

"Fiona..." Michael uttered her name tenderly, a plea for forgiveness. The sound of her name spoken so lovingly enraged her rather than elicited compassion. She had welcomed this stranger into her bed and into her heart. The sting of betrayal coursed through her body.

"Who the hell are ya?" She held the gun pointed at his chest. He knew what an excellent shot she was. She would not miss, not at this range. So this is how it would end. Not in the wilds of Afghanistan or a battlefield in Iraq. He had survived those. He had made it through Chechnya, even living through the time working with Larry Sizemore, a sociopathic operative he happened to be partnered with for several years. No, it would end here in a Northside Dublin guesthouse at the hands of a woman he had fallen deeply in love with. He supposed he deserved no better.

_"In the world of deception spies inhabit, the truth takes on a peculiar power. The truth, the verifiable,__unvarnished truth, becomes the ultimate bargaining chip. The irony is that the only time you get to play that chip is when everything is on the line a__nd you only get to play it once." _ It was time for truth_._

He dropped the false brogue and spoke to her as himself for the first time. "My name is Michael Westen. I'm ... I'm an American spy. I work for the CIA... I have for years." There it was - the reality hidden from her these many weeks. He braced himself for the bullet that was sure to follow that revelation but at least the burden of deception had been lifted from his soul. He watched as her eyes grew wide, her finger ready to depress the trigger that would end his life.

"Bloody hell." She took a deep breath. The words hit her as if she had been punched in her gut. A spy! She wanted to put a bullet through the man's head but knew more was at stake than just her wounded heart. Fiona had trusted him, discussing her business, involving him with the 'RA, bringing him to places where he heard much that was privy only to supporters. She had introduced him to her family! He had made her an informer. "Do ya have any idea what ya done, McBride? Ya made me a tout, ya have."

Michael shook his head, "No, I..."

She interrupted his useless excuses. "Do ya remember what they do to touts here, Michael? Was that part of your Intel when ya were sent here, or did that not matter to ya? Just collateral damage, I suppose." Her heart raced as she tried to grasp the situation that she found herself in, pondering the possible consequences to herself and her family.

"Fiona, if you would just let me explain." Michael needed her to understand.

"Explain? Wot will ya explain ta me? Tat ya've been lying ta me … all dis time? Tat de bullet through me head is fer some greater good?"

Michael blanched. His lips tightened. "I won't let that happen."

"Ya tink ya can stop it, do ya? Tat's wot 'appens 'ere. A bullet in me head and an unmarked grave, becomin' one of de 'disappeared' or perhaps dey'll leave me lifeless body on me ma's doorstep. Another favourite way to dispose of collaborators! At least she'll 'ave me body tat way!" She paused letting that mental picture form in his head. "Wot did ya tell 'em?" She was nearly hysterical now. "Maybe I can trade tat fer me family, keep 'em alive." She took two steps closer, her finger ready to end this, her voice shaky as she screamed her question once more. "Wot d'ya tell 'em?"

He noticed the more agitated she became, the more West Belfast inflections, the less Dublin, could be heard in her speech. She was losing control and she held a gun at his heart. It isn't that he minded dying; he deserved it for what he had done. What agonised him is that she would never know the truth if she pulled that trigger and his lies would haunt her forever.

"I didn't tell them anything!" He screamed back at her, the muscles in his neck grew taut. The force of his voice caused her to stop and refocus, gaining back a modicum of control. She stared at him wide-eyed, her body trembling. His voice softened, his eyes moist, as he shook his head and declared, "I didn't tell them anything, Fiona." Her knees buckled and she slipped to the ground but her gun remained pointed at her target. He watched her crumple and strained slightly at his bonds. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, wipe away her tears, ease her suffering. He wanted to be Michael McBride again!

A wish impossible to be granted, he focused on what could be done. "Look, turn me over to your people, maybe it buys you a pass." She scoffed at the idea. "I'm dead any way you look at it. Either you shoot me, the IRA executes me, or my own people deal with me for NOT passing along information I learned here." He uttered his final plea, praying she would accept his offer. "Fi, it's the smart play here. Barter an exchange, my head for yours."

She stared at his for several moments, his American accent throwing her off kilter. "Ya're really American?" A slight nod of his head answered her question. "Workin' fer the Brits, then?"

"No!" He was adamant. "Strictly an American op. Hell, MI-5 would probably shoot me as well, working on their turf without consent. If I'm caught my own agency would likely disavow, say I was a rogue agent." He saw that she was listening, her body less tense. "I was sent here to go after Hannon. Everything I told you about him is true." The first part of the tale was easy, the next part significantly more difficult. She waited for him to continue. "My government, my president, want this peace deal badly. They wanted me to see if this was real, if the Provos would really agree, disarm, and where those weapons would go when they did. In order to do that, I needed to develop an asset with access." She winced as she heard this part of his mission, her grip tightening on her gun. "But, everything I passed along had to do with Hannon - nothing else." His eyes met hers. "I didn't tell them anything."

She believed him. She lowered her weapon and slid backward resting her back against the wall, fatigue hitting her as the adrenaline rush subsided. They sat silent for a while, emotions raw and wounded. "So, you and me, was it all just a lie?" She knew the game. She had played it once or twice herself but never to this degree, and never for this length of time. The answers she demanded may not soothe her wounded soul but she needed to know the truth.

Michael looked away. _"_You know how it is. _It's never all a lie. It's always more complicated than that."_ Then, he faced her. "But you and me, it was never a lie. I lied to you about who I was, never about how I felt. That... That was real. IS real... I guess." He was confused as she as what they were to each other, the lines were muddled the moment they met.

"Ya guess? Ya are so not good at this!" Spies are meant to be good liars, but someone working for the American CIA should be able to think up a better cover story than the one he just told, yet it had a ring of truth. She wanted to believe him; she needed to believe him. This had to be more than deception; she felt it deep within her soul. He saw a glimmer of life flicker in her eyes.

He stammered, unsure how to continue. "I ... I wanted to tell you...I was just waiting for the right time..."

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Ah, it wasn't the right time when we met. It wasn't the right time when we started sleepin' together. It was the right time when I caught you meetin' your contact in the park. Is that about right, McBride?"

"Westen. It's Westen." No apology could erase the facts so he added no other plea for forgiveness.

Fiona stopped as she grappled with a memory, her heart racing as her thoughts turned to the past. "McBride. You didn't want me to call you McBride. Never when we were alone. Only Michael." She suddenly realised why it was so important to him that she comply with this request. Maybe she was reading more into that conversation than was intended, but Michael's eyes then and now told a different tale.

"Your name, your given name, it's really Michael, isn't it?" He nodded noting the subtle change in her voice, the spark slowly returning to her eyes. "Michael." She said the name tenderly as was her custom. Perhaps, it wasn't all a lie after all. If she was to lose her life over her involvement with an American spy, at least she could hold on to the fact that they had truly loved.

"I'm Fiona. I've always been Fiona." A weak smile crossed her face, her voice uncertain but wanting to believe. "Nice to finally meet the real you, Michael."

Michael beamed. "_The pleasure's all mine." _It wasn't much but it was a start.

The next few hours were spent getting reacquainted. It was an odd conversation: the Provo volunteer slumped against the wall, gun in hand, the American spy tethered to a chair rigged with a dead man's switch. All of it with the backdrop of a squalid flat in the Northside of Dublin.

Fiona had known her lover harboured secrets. There were wee lapses over the course of their relationship. She suspected he might be a tinker, one of the many Travellers accustomed to living on the fringes of Irish society. It would explain so any of his gaffs. She had nearly confronted him about it but believed that he was trying to distance himself from his family, from his past. Fiona did not want him to think that would matter to her, so she kept silent. Never did she imagine the truth he so zealously concealed!

It was the first totally honest conversation that the two had ever had. He tried to answer every query with truth, explaining when there were some elements to his story he was unable, unwilling to divulge. As an operative, she understood this need for secrecy, this silence for a cause. He opened his heart, more than he had to anyone, realising it was the only hope of making her see it truly was not all a lie.

There were also a few sins of omission. The topic of his fiancée, ex-fiancée in his mind, was not broached. Fiona never specifically asked if he was engaged although she did inquire whether there was a wife and kiddies waiting for him at home. He assured her there wasn't and vowed to himself there wouldn't be an engagement either once he was able to break it off. He had agreed to marry Samantha in haste. He thought he might love her at the time, but now, now he realised what love was, how it felt, how it consumed you in every way possible. There was no way he could marry Samantha now because he was desperately in love with somebody else. The woman who sat across from him, the woman who had him zip tied to a chair and designed a rather ingenious death trap for his benefit; this was the woman he loved!

Michael's hands were beginning to cramp up; his feet had gone numb long ago. "You think you could...? "He indicated his bonds hoping she would consider removing them. She cocked her head as she considered his request. "After all, there's still the chair." He pointed out that he was still attached to an explosive device. "Very clever, by the way. Never saw that coming."

"It was one of my better ideas." She appreciated the compliment; a slight smile of satisfaction graced her countenance causing him to do the same. She stared at him for several moments as she considered his request. With a loud sigh, she removed a small knife from its sheath strapped to her calf and made her way over to where he was imprisoned. She crouched before him holding the knife menacingly, pondering her next move.

Michael watched as she fondled the knife wondering if he had made an error in judgement. She was unpredictable under the best of circumstances and this situation had pushed her well beyond that. "Fi, the restraints." He grinned as he gave her the subtle reminder.

She placed her face inches from his. The knife neared his throat but then made a detour as she took a chunk out of his chest before cutting the restraints locked around his wrists. Michael flinched at the sudden pain. Blood began to seep through his shirt. "Just wanted to see if ya had a heart in there or if it was made of stone." She examined the cut. "Bit deeper than I intended. That'll leave a scar, I fear. Oops!" She smirked as she cut through the zip ties about his ankles, and then returned to her place by the wall.

Michael gave her a disapproving look as he removed his shirt and made it into a ball using it to staunch the bleeding. He noticed that her attention was drawn to the sight of his bare chest. He took that as a positive sign so he asked, "And the chair? I suppose you can diffuse this thing." She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of his question. "Of course, you can. Look Fi, as I see it you have four options." Her attention was now focused on his words rather than his physique. "Option one: you can contact your associates. Tell them you figured out I was not who I said I was and that you captured me. You get out of this free and clear." It was a sound idea which would vindicate Fiona but lead to a tortuous death for the spy. "Option two: I disappear. You never see me again. Tell your buddies we had a row, a nasty breakup..."

Fiona chimed in, "Not far from the truth." Her eyes flashed a bit of anger.

Michael ignored the comment as he continued. "Option three: you let me take down Hannon. I'll tell them the IRA connection is lost. I can find another asset..."

"Ya can't get to Hannon a different way now. Ya've already laid the groundwork using me." She pointed out the obvious flaw to that idea.

"Which leads me to option four." She stopped, her face reflecting confusion. "You work with me to finish the job - put Hannon out of business - permanently."

"I'm not sure I like any of those choices, Michael." Fiona saw more negatives than positives for each of the scenarios that the American presented.

"Well, which one do you like slightly more than the others." Then he smiled, the smile that had captured her heart originally. His blue eyes with a glint of mischief along with their cool analysis drew her in once more. She was so tired of men lying to her, using her... Armand, now him. But she knew that she wasn't ready to have whatever this was, end. She certainly couldn't see this man she had loved ripped to shreds by her associates. Fiona made a decision, hating herself for her weakness.

She approached slowly on her hands and knees. Lying on her back she scooted under the chair, releasing the wires that would free her captive, wondering if she had been fooled once more, wondering if he would snap her neck as soon as he was able.

Standing up, he stretched his muscles aching from the forced confinement. Michael exhaled deeply and extended his arm to assist her in moving upright, their hands touching once more. Fiona felt the same warmth course through her body whenever she felt his touch. They stood facing one another, neither releasing their grip. Michael waited for her decision. "So this thing with Hannon. I'll expect compensation." Her composure regained, she spoke as if this was one of her business transactions.

"I am sure I can work something out with my people." Michael was used to negotiating terms between the Agency and assets.

Fiona shrugged off the suggestion, "I wasn't wantin' somethin' from your 'people', Westen." She used his surname for the first time, a disparaging edge to her voice. There was a glint in his eye as he made an assumption from her comment but she quickly set him straight. "I was thinkin' more in terms of bringin' me tea, pickin' up my dry cleaning, cleanin' my guns, being my 'go for'. Ya know, instead of just being an ass, ya can be MY asset." Michael looked at her for several seconds trying to ascertain if she was serious or not.

Fiona was not sure whether or not to continue their physical relationship after this debacle, her mind and her heart in conflict, but for now she decided to keep the door open. "Of course, I may require other services." She held his gaze as she lifted an eyebrow, her meaning becoming clear to him.

"I'll see what I can do." Michael moved closer. Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing the open wound she had inflicted. Their actions were tentative, neither knowing exactly how to proceed. Yet both realised they had taken an unprecedented step, a step that was risky, dangerous, and fuelled by emotion rather than reason, a step forged by love.

**A/N: **So much for the star crossed lovers to process now that the secret is out! _**The Reveal: Part 2**_ continues the tale and will be posted on Friday. As always, thank you for your kind reviews. Hope you continue to enjoy!


	19. The Reveal: Part 2

**Stone of the Heart**

_**The Reveal: Part 2**_

"So, what do we do now?" Fiona looked at the man before her.

"Honestly... I have no idea." He had nothing profound to offer, no clear-cut plan to go forward. His cover had been blown by his asset. His training screamed at him to abort the entire mission, call Card with a _mea culpa _speech, brief the Agency on all that he discovered during his time here, and hope people were in a forgiving mood or his next posting would be in Reykjavik. But looking into her eyes, filled with a pain of his making, he realised his training never covered this situation. He needed her to see what began as a task morphed into something else, something real.

There was an awkward silence as Michael searched for a fresh shirt and something to bandage the gash in his chest. Fiona grabbed a serviette and some duct tape improvising a makeshift dressing. She attended to the wound with care, a small part of her repentant. The damage that Michael had wrought was less visible but no less present as he sought a remedy for his actions.

Michael had already messed with Fiona's life by recruiting her as an unwitting asset and then getting involved with her romantically. He was willing to follow her lead now, willing to support whatever move she was about to make. She waited for him to speak, to offer some suggestion. "Well, we could have a yoghurt while we talk about it. I got some at the store." He spoke softly in his American accent, a sad smile gracing his countenance, as he buttoned up his shirt.

She shook her head as she mirrored his smile with one of her own. "Something fermented is definitely in order, but I was hoping for something a bit stronger under the circumstances." Some of the tension dissipated as their conversation turned slightly normal.

Fiona sighed, looking around the flat. "For starters, I'd say we leave here." Her expression clearly indicated a great distaste for the state of her surroundings. "Is this the best Uncle Sam could do for ya here?"

"Apparently." The spy grinned. He did not find these accommodations too bad. He had experienced much worse.

"Well, remind me to never trust the opinion of anyone named Sam then." Fiona rolled her eyes as packed her supplies and headed for the door.

"I'll keep that in mind." Michael watched her every movement trying to gauge her mood, trying to figure out exactly how things stood between them.

She paused at the door looking back into the flat. Michael stood immobile, hands on his hips, a forlorn look on his face. "Are ya comin' then, Michael? Ya can even bring the damn yoghurt if ya like." Her heart raced as she said the words.

She tried to read his expression. Gone was the lightness of Michael McBride. Now, she understood the dichotomy between the private and public faces of this man. She may have originally fallen for the suave McBride, always knowing the right thing to do or say, but over time the man with the soulful eyes tugged at her heart. Those eyes knew sorrow as did her own. Together they took solace, comfort without words. The term 'soul mate' seemed so trite yet applied, he completed her, he was the piece missing in her heart, missing ever since Claire. So, she waited for his response, praying he would accompany her, praying that he was finally being truthful that there was more here than lies and betrayal.

He moved slowly toward her side. "You sure about this?" Once they took this step, she could never undo the action. She would have willingly worked with a foreign agent. That fact that he was American and not British might be looked upon in a slightly more favourable light, yet may not be enough to save her if it was discovered.

"I'm not sure about anything right now." Fiona was struggling to get her head around all that she had learned. Every time he spoke, his accent was a stark reminder of her new reality. She offered him her car keys. "Ya drive." Then, she closed her fist around them just as he was about to take possession. "Maybe not. Not sure I trust ya now that I know ya usually drive on the wrong side of the road."

Michael reached for her hand, holding it gently in his own. "I'll be extra careful." Her fingers slowly unfurled, a small gesture of faith, his touch soothing. Fiona looked at his hand, focusing on a tiny scar near his thumb. It was the same hand that held her close during that first dance, that cradled her face to look into her eyes, that moved along her body when they were alone, that pulled the trigger of a sniper rifle on a Belfast rooftop. She felt as if she knew this man better than herself, yet now she wondered if she knew him at all.

The spy's mind was in a similar state of confusion. She never asked him to drive; she much preferred to be the one in control in nearly every facet of life. The fact that she readily relinquished her keys indicated that her distress was profound despite her outward appearance of calm. Was he making a mistake trying to keep her close?

The journey home was strained as each attempted to resolve their own inner conflicts. Michael, wondering if he could betray all that he was to remain by the side of this woman now that the truth was disclosed. Fiona, wondering if she could betray all that she was to keep this secret, knowing the consequences if the truth came to light. Two people so hopelessly wrong for one another, yet so perfect together.

As they entered the house, Michael tried to duplicate the easy life they had created for themselves. He ducked into the kitchen, emerging with two bottles, and some glasses. "Wine or whiskey?" The familiar question posed. Fiona moved toward him taking the bottle of Jameson's from his hand and she started to turn away. "Glass?"

"I don't need a glass." She curled up in the corner of the sofa, opened the bottle, and took a large drink of the fiery liquid. Her eyes bored into his with each movement. Michael set the remaining bottle and the glasses on the table and sat in the armchair opposite her.

She took another large gulp. "So, where ya from again? I was only half listening before." The blood had been coursing through her, her own heartbeat drowning out the peripheral sounds around her as the truth was revealed.

"Miami." Michael poured himself some wine. Even he felt the need for alcohol, a need to dampen his senses.

"Miami? In Florida?" He nodded. "Maybe, we can go there one day. Try someplace sunny." She searched his face, hoping for confirmation that they might have a future together.

Michael winced. "Rains a lot, too. Miami is somewhere I'd rather avoid."

"Is your family not there, then?" Fiona was curious regarding his aversion to the place.

"They are which is the reason I'd rather avoid it. Can we talk about something else?" The current situation was awkward enough. He would rather not add his dysfunctional family to the mix.

"I think it's only fair that I get to choose the topic of conversation." She cocked her head and glared at the man daring him to disagree. Michael could offer no rebuttal. Fiona's questions did lead in another direction, one that was no less uncomfortable for the American. "That man. In the park. Who is he?"

Michael squirmed as he readied himself to tell another lie. He looked up, looked into her eyes. She was trying to make sense of this situation. He could not begin another trail of deception. He cleared his throat. "His name is Tom Card. He was my training officer in the CIA. Still runs me in operations. He's the one who sent me here." He stopped and stared into his wineglass, knowing he had already divulged too much, hoping she would be satisfied with that answer, knowing that she would want more.

The Irishwoman continued to sip the whiskey straight from the bottle. Michael watched her down nearly half a bottle, reassured that at least she had a high tolerance for the liquid. "Why's he here?" Fiona, the PIRA volunteer, needed to know what possible reason would cause a high level CIA officer to come to Dublin. Michael insisted that he told the Agency nothing about the Army but the older man's presence seemed to belie that statement. She waited for an answer.

The spy's voice was barely a whisper. "He knows, Fi."

"He knows? What the hell are ya talkin' about, Michael."

"He knows... About us." He looked up. Their eyes locked. Michael was totally blindsided that Card had any idea of what was happening here in regards to his personal life. Apparently, there were other field agents in play.

"Don't tell me ya never 'romanced' an asset before?" Fiona discounted the confession. She worked in the field. She knew how the game was played. Unfortunately, it was all too common to use sex to gain trust and information. She had engaged in that tactic, as well. Americans were said to be a bit prudish about the subject but surely that did not apply to their covert operatives. She watched his face for clues and then she saw it, the complete unvarnished truth. She wasn't just an asset; she was something else, something more.

She sat up, a slight lift to her spirits. "What did he say about that, about us?" Michael dropped his gaze as he tried to find the words to soften Card's message. " Jaysus, does he want ya to shoot me then?" She took an extra long swig from the bottle thinking that it might dull the blow of the bullet.

"No, no, nothing like that." Michael waved his hands completely discounting the possibility. "I think he wants me to, uh, put a little distance between us."

"Ah, he wants ya to stop riding me, does he now?" Fiona's eyes widened, an amused expression appeared on her face in sharp contrast to Michael's grimace, uncomfortable with her phrasing.

"That's the general idea." Michael tried to sound nonchalant but his uncharacteristic gulp of wine told another tale.

"And do ya intend to comply with yer orders then?" Her tone was more of an accusation than question.

Michael knew that he should. He understood that was possibly the best course of action in this situation even if it meant Hannon would continue to ply his trade unimpeded. "I'm a spy, Fiona. I'm not very good at following orders." His gaze turned toward her, a bit of mischief in his eyes. One of the reasons he preferred covert work to soldiering was the opportunity to improvise in a given situation.

"And if ya don't? What will they do to ya if they find out?" She had no idea of how American agencies meted out their displeasure.

"Send me to some undesirable posting." Michael thought of all the unwanted locations that he could wind up: Reykjavik, Nuuk, Miami. He had to hope Card and Raines would not want his talents wasted in some far off outpost. They may put him on ice, figuratively or literally, for a few months as a type of penance, but eventually they would bring him back to the fold. It was worth the risk, worth it to be with her a bit longer.

He watched as the tenseness in her body started to ebb, fewer sips of whiskey taken. The topic veered away from the personal to a more comfortable operational one. Their professional association had sound reasons to continue. This part of their relationship had fewer complications, more synchronicity. "So, while ya were off having your secret meeting, Hannon called. We set up another sale. We'll get another chance at the bastard."

Michael nodded. "That's good news." They were moving into a realm where Michael Westen excelled, where he rarely struggled for answers. He had told her the truth and they were both still alive. He began to relax believing the worst was behind them.

"It is." She smiled, placed the nearly empty bottle on the table, and moved toward him. "Maybe..." He remained stationary on the chair as she approached, straddling him. " ... After we take care of Hannon, we could set up our own business. Ya'll be done with your mission. The Agreement will be in place, so I won't be necessarily needed..." Fiona was envisioning a life beyond the one they currently knew. Perhaps it was time to throw off the shackles of the past, make a fresh start - together. But then, she saw his face and realised this dream could never be.

"Fi." His voice cracked as he said her name.

She sprang from his lap as if it were on fire. He was going to leave. They had no future, they never had. "Ya bloody bastard!" She reached for the bottle, crashing it over his head. He ducked and rolled to the floor avoiding the worst of the blow. She followed it up with a kick to the ribs, unleashing the fury that had returned in full force.

The spy quickly got to his feet and tried to calm her down, or at least fend her off. "Fi. Fi. Fiona." But if the mention of her name was supposed to reduce her anger, the action failed miserably. He slowly backed up as she kicked into the air, her second attempt landing a blow to his solar plexus. "Ow!" The pain radiated throughout his body. He was beginning to get irritated. "You can stop now. You've made your point."

"Have I now?" She moved in position intending to flip him into the air. "Don't think I'll stop till yer bruised and bloody, head to toe." She grabbed him but Michael simply spun her around increasing her ire.

"I don't want you to get hurt. Can we just talk about this?" The American put up his hands, a gesture of a momentary cessation of the battle. Fiona paid no heed to his warning and charged at him full force. He caught her nearly in mid-air and forced her against the wall. She tried to claw her way free but Michael held her fast, his body pressed against her, his hands holding hers. Struggling was pointless.

The Irishwoman ceased all movement using the time for a brief rest and to plan her next attack. Michael felt her body relax slightly, realising it could be nothing more than a ruse. Their breath was laboured more from emotion than exertion. Both felt the heat from the other.

Fiona tried to resist the pull of his eyes as they sought out hers. She looked downward avoiding his gaze, avoiding the need his nearness provoked within her. But, it was futile. Like moths to a flame, their attraction was deadly but irresistible.

Michael loosened his grip not wanting anything to seem forced. His hands no longer held her, his body still pressed against her, feeling more like desire than restraint. His gaze met hers, seeking permission, hoping for permission. Fiona's voice heavy with desire soon honoured that request. 'If ya stop now, Michael, I really will kill ya?" Michael needed no further invitation.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sleep was nearly impossible. They avoided speaking, fearing it would lead to more disagreement. Instead, they lie within one another's arms, relishing the closeness, the warmth of the other. It was almost easy to pretend that all was normal, that the previous day had been but a nightmare.

Fiona's mind wandered. She thought of the old toast. _"__May you never lie, steal, cheat or drink. __But if you must lie, lie in each other's arms.__.." _There was temporary comfort here, a comfort of limited duration. It may last another day, another week, another month, but then he would be gone, and she feared her heart would always long for his return. Still, she would cling to these moments however fleeting.

Michael was usually the early riser but Fiona could no longer feign sleep. She eased herself from the bed, acting as if she believed her partner was truly sleeping. The man felt her depart, slipping from his arms. Although fully awake himself, he understood that she craved a few minutes of solitude, time to process yesterday's revelations. He forced himself to remain in bed, try to clarify his own thoughts as he lie alone.

She put the kettle on and downed a few aspirin for her pounding headache regretting drinking an entire bottle of the pure the night before. There was a heaviness around her heart; a heaviness she feared would always be present now that she learned the truth. The whistling of the kettle disrupted her morose thoughts. The familiar actions of making tea provided a brief distraction.

Tea, Ireland's solution to every worry. She sipped the warm beverage and settled by the window pondering her future, a future that would likely not include the man currently sleeping in her bed. Light began to seep into the room just as the sun began to rise.

Michael entered, his eyes immediately drawn to her. She stood bathed in light, staring at the sea, lost in thought. His presence noted, she faced him, a slight smile at the corners of her lips. She was so beautiful it nearly took his breath away. He took the smile to be an invitation and he soon joined her at the window. They watched the sun rise over the Irish Sea in silence, the sky alight with colour. She reached for his hand. A new day, a new life was beginning.


End file.
